The Adventures of Tintin: The Belgian Mafia
by Poisonous172828
Summary: The year is 1952, and a gang is on the rise in Belgium. As Tintin strives to break apart this malicious ring of criminals, he finds himself faced up against more than anyone ever bargained for. Danger, adventure, and a mysterious girl come together as Tintin fights for justice. Prepare for the unexpected. Inspired by Pencil-Pink-Girl303. [IN PROGRESS].
1. Chapter 1

_At that moment, time seemed to stand still. My eyes were seeing the scene that lay before me, but it was as if my brain was left in the past, trampled in the alarming speed of events. There was a brittle silence, like a balloon being pumped fuller and fuller and fuller with air...I needed to do something, breathe, swallow, close my eyes and focus, but I was frozen, mummified in time. The masked man before me raised the nose of his gun, aiming it into the crowd. The gun jerked back violently as he fired, bullets cutting through the air, the silence suddenly shattered. A blood-curdling wail of terror instantly erupted from the sea of bodies, as the thin atmosphere of the street was suddenly cast into chaos. People, men and women alike, shoved each other aside as they forced their way through, their faces colorless and their eyes painfully wide, like those of a cornered animal. I recognized one of the bodies that pushed me out of the way, her fingernails leaving red streaks on my forearm. That's the woman who was sitting next to me on the bus. She was so quiet and reserved then, her face buried in a book. Something hard hit me in the hip; it felt like someone had thrown a pebble at me. I looked back to the masked man, the icy feeling in my brain and throat thickening as he turned his murderous brown eyes onto mine, his gun still vibrating against his shoulder with the effort of expelling bullets. I felt another pebble hit me in the left side of my chest as I crumpled to the ground, a strange exhaustion taking over my body. Everything had happened too fast, everything was too strange. My head started to ring with the sound of my own heartbeat as I melted onto the pavement, a burning sensation beginning to irritate the places where the 'pebbles' had struck my body._ Fire-pebbles? _In muted confusion, I looked down. Blood had soaked through the front of my dress, now starting to pool on the ground beside me. The burning feeling sharpened with every second, and I realized that I had been shot. A heavy unconsciousness enveloped my senses as my head fell back to the ground._

 _/*/*/*_

''Twenty-four civilians were killed this morning in the shooting on Chapel Street in Brussels, leaving more than 29 injured. The shooter was not identified, but witnesses informed us the man was around one eighty-three tall, with dark skin and brown eyes. The shooter, using an Automatic Kalashnikov 12 assault rifle…."

Tintin leaned forward to switch the radio off, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the arm of his chair as he sank back into it. Archibald Haddock lowered his newspaper slightly from across the parlor.

''Sounds pretty serious.''

''Mm.''

Tintin brought his hand up to his chin, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration, as he often did when he was thinking. The telephone in the entryway rang, echoing through the quiet house rather loudly.

''May I?''

''Yes, please,'' Haddock replied, waving him away. Tintin caught the phone on its third ring and brought it up to his ear.

''Hello, this is Tintin speaking.''

''Ah, Mr. Tintin. I was hoping I could get a hold of you. Have you heard about the shooting? Tragic.''

He recognized the deep voice on the other end of the line with expectancy.

''Hello, Mr. Lawson. I just heard on the radio. How soon are they going to announce the names of the victims?''

''You will be the first to know, as I was calling to ask if you could pitch a story for us.''

''Certainly. I can go and interview some of the witnesses today, if you'd like.''

''That would be a fine start, but what we would really like to know is...well, we've seen you work before, Tintin.''

''I'm sorry?''

The voice on the other end of the line chuckled quietly.

''You've cracked open cases that would normally take detectives with decades of experience many months to figure out, in the course of a few weeks. You've been around the world without spending a single pound. You've gotten dangerously close to master criminals and escaped unscathed."

Tintin's ears warmed at the generous praise, as the voice continued,

"I don't know how you do it, but we need you to do it again. Belgium is in great need of protection at times like this.''

''I-I'll try my best, Mr. Lawson…''

''I know you will. Give me a call if you need anything.''

Tintin heard a sharp click on the other end and replaced the receiver, returning to the parlor. Haddock glanced up at him expectantly.

''Who was that?''

''Mr. Lawson. My boss. He wants me to do a story on the shooting this morning.''

''Ah, so you're going off on another one of your wild goose chases?''

''It-it's not like that, really. I'm just interviewing some witnesses.''

''Hm. And hedgehogs fly.''

Tintin was stunned for a moment by the similarity between Haddock and Mr. Lawson's dialogue. It was as if the retired sea captain had overheard his conversation, yet he knew that wasn't likely. He ran a hand through his ginger tuft thoughtfully as Haddock continued,

''You've really made a name for yourself, Tintin. Don't be so bashful about it; you know, you might even be proud of yourself.''

''Er...yes. Well, anyway, I should go. I'll be back before seven.''

Haddock chuckled to himself as Tintin left the room, his scraggly black beard quivering in response.

''We will see, Tintin. We will see.''


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: This chapter is a bit of a short one, but it has some vital info, so please enjoy! I want to take a moment to thank all my viewers, your support is SO appreciated, in ways words can't describe! So thank you, **Guest** (if you wrote a review as **Guest,** this means you, because I only got one!). Aaaaaaand action! _

''Where were you at 10:36 yesterday morning?''

''I was taking my dog for a walk on Prince Lane. We were heading to the park, as one of the entrances is connected to Chapel Street. I was...I was looking at the street name sign, merely 4 meters away from the intersection, when I heard the gunshots...and the screams…''

The woman's eyes were staring ahead at nothing, her whole body rigid as if she were standing on a tightrope. Tintin drew in a silent breath as he scribbled notes into his notepad, his lips pressing together and his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up into the woman's haunted expression, a hint of concern lingering in his eyes.

''I know this is hard to talk about, Mrs. Peters. I can fight against this horrible threat, but it helps to have information. Is there anything else you would like to say? Any notable details you saw?''

Mrs. Peters blinked, her dark eyes refocusing quickly, and she took a deep breath to recompose herself.

''I won't repeat what I saw at that dreadful hour, but I will tell you this. There was this black car...a Cadillac Series 62, it looked like. It was parked on the side of the road, perpendicular to Chapel Street. The driver did not get out of the car; he simply sat there, until that man started firing, and then drove slowly away. I didn't think much of it until now, but I suppose it was rather strange.''

''Could you describe the driver?''

''No, no...it looked like a man, but I barely glanced at him.''

Her face was pale and still, the only sign of life her contracting pupils. Tintin decided this interview was over. He sympathetically placed a hand on her shoulder, thanked her for helping him, and started off towards Chapel Street.

Tintin was still jotting down information into his notepad as he turned the corner, when he suddenly received a hard knock to the stomach. He leaned back with a grunt, steadying himself against the brick wall. To his dismay, his notepad was not saved, as it flew out of his hands and onto the street. Tintin found himself looking from his scattered notepad papers to a pair of casual sneakers, and finally to a gangly heap of adolescent arms and legs. A pair of dark blue, almost violet eyes glared up into his violently, the pupils slim and feline-like. For half a breath, Tintin was caught in that intense blue gaze, hardened with deep anger, deep hatred. Hatred towards whom, he let himself wonder? He hadn't done anything, yet he felt as if he were sinking under a weight of accusation.

''Why can't you watch where you're going!?''

The girl's heated reply hastened Tintin as he offered his hand to her.

''I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, I….''

She had a fair complexion and chestnut hair that spilled over her shoulders and back in curvy waves. The pale freckles over her nose gave her a youthful glow, quite fitting, Tintin thought. She refused his hand, instead sitting stubbornly on the ground, her legs sticking out ungracefully.

''No, _thank you_.''

Tintin pulled his hand back in, bewildered. She was certainly spitting with fury, but among the thick haze of anger in her eyes, there was a trace of something stronger- _fear_. He crouched down cautiously, but the girl did not meet his eyes again. She was preoccupied, picking up pages of his notepad and studying them curiously. _What a nosey little critter._ Tintin tucked all the pages he could get his hands on into his notepad, keeping a sharp eye out for the most vital one; Mrs. Peter's interview. Irritation pricked at him when he saw that the girl was holding it.

''Excuse me miss, but I need that.''

The girl's stormy eyes flashed up at him once, before returning to the page. Tintin pressed his finger to his temple with a sigh, and tried to sit more comfortably on the concrete.

''My name is Tintin. What's yours?''

''Anya Shan,'' she replied promptly, to Tintin's surprise. She flipped the paper over and examined the other side, offering Tintin his pencil without shifting her eyes. The sharp tip of the pencil had broken off when it fell. Tintin turned it over in his hands casually, and tucked it behind his ear, trying not to draw attention to themselves, as they had already received some distasteful glances from passerbys. Finally, the girl handed him his paper and rose to her feet.

''You know, you need a new notepad. This is simply unprofessional.''

''Well, _now_ I-''

''So, you're entering the war? The endless fight between civilians and terrorists?''

Tintin tucked the paper into his pocket as he stood, brushing his fingertips against his thighs, and fixed Anya with a serious look.

''I'm forcibly leaning myself against the hope that you will not go around spreading this.''

She pulled an innocent face, dramatically throwing a hand over her heart.

''Me? Spread things? Never.''

''Good.''

He picked his pencil out from behind his ear and proceeded to tuck it into the bindings of the notebook in his other pocket. Anya tilted her head slightly, her cold blue eyes restlessly calculating. She was obviously looking at him, but for a reason he could not deduct. _Yes,_ he thought to himself, _what a nosey critter._

''Tintin...you're that reporter bloke everyone talks about, aren't you? Did you _really_ break up the crime gangs in Chicago single-handedly?''

''Something of the likes, yes. I'm afraid I must be on my way now, but if you want to know more about that, see if you can find a newspaper from September 1943. Excuse me.''

He politely nodded and continued down the street. The girl turned to watch him, her hands behind her back, her eyes narrowed slightly.

''Have a lovely day, Mr. Tintin. Keep that pencil working!''

He cast her a wry grin over his shoulder, his hands sliding into his pockets.

 _Nosey indeed._


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: The first part of this chapter is very dark and gruesome, just a heads up!

His pathetic whimpers could turn any man's stomach, but these men were well adjusted to such procedures. So adjusted, in fact, that they even started to enjoy the process. The whip hissed as it sliced through the air, a black blur. The hissing turned to a high pitched shriek before snapping across the man's back, tearing into his flesh. He raised his voice in a blood-curdling wail, not much different than that of an animal. His jaw trembled, mouth gasping for air that would only tumble back out of him again seconds later. The bloodied whip finally came to rest, the man's heavy panting the only sound echoing off the concrete walls. He couldn't see past the scratchy fabric of the blindfold, but with his hands he could feel an aged cement floor, scattered with cigarette butts. An unfamiliar voice spoke out from the musty darkness.

''That's enough, gentlemen. Cain and Guttermouth, take him out and leave him someplace in Brussels. His little friends should find him soon enough.''

''Sure thing, Boss. Do you want us to pick up any more passengers along the way?''

''There is a certain...passenger...I am most interested in meeting. We've talked about this before, and I'm sure you will do well in retrieving him for me. Now go, _vite!_ ''

There was a shuffling of feet, and the man was lifted ungracefully off the floor, his battered body giving no attempt to resist. His wounds burned like hellfire, yet he dared not cry out. The loss of blood and pain forced him to fight for consciousness, as he was tossed into the back seat of a car, the plushness of the seats cursing his back and shoulders. His fingers searched his uniform until they found a metallic, shield-shaped badge; as the car lurched into motion, it was all he could do to keep the tears from escaping his swollen eyes.

The scraping of silverware against plate seemed to remind Tintin of how hungry he was. He had forgotten to eat breakfast that morning, not that that was out of the ordinary; meals were often forgotten when he was on a case. Tintin leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out with a grunt, and made his way to the kitchen. He cooked some scrambled eggs and bacon, and followed the scraping sound to the dining room. Haddock looked up as the ginger-haired boy entered, from his place at the head of the table.

''I see ye've finally remembered how to eat.''

''I've only been working for a few hours.''

''I haven't heard much typing.''

Tintin raised an eyebrow wryly at Haddock as he sat.

''I don't have much information yet, I've only just started to put together the rough draft. And to top it all off, my notebook fell apart yesterday.''

Tintin set his plate down and bowed his head for a quick prayer before eating. As he enjoyed the savory flavors of his meal, he looked over and saw, next to Haddock's plate, a tall glass of whiskey. He narrowed his brow disapprovingly.

''It's rather early for that, isn't it?''

Haddock shrugged, glancing away.

''I'm awake, aren't I?''

Tintin scoffed quietly, but didn't say anything more. He finished and stood, taking his plate.

''I'm taking Snowy for a walk. He needs some exercise.''

He paused as he slid his trench coat on.

''You might join us?''

Haddock stood and followed Tintin to the door, waving one of his hands lazily while the other rested in his pocket.

''You go ahead. I need to do some repairs on the car.''

Tintin snapped his fingers suddenly, remembering.

''Ah, yes! You asked me to grab you a spark plug. I left it in the garage; it should be on your workbench.''

''Ah, thanks, lad,'' Haddock replied with a wide grin, slapping Tintin's shoulder cheerfully. The corners of Tintin's mouth turned up slightly.

''Of course.''

He raised his hand in farewell as he followed Snowy out to the fountain, the white terrier already impatient to get going. The sun shone gallantly, light dancing across clear blue skies with promise of a beautiful day. Pushing aside all troubling thoughts for a while to enjoy the weather was tempting, but Tintin knew he couldn't let his guard down, not while there were killers on the loose.

The bell made a welcoming _ding_ sound as the door swung open, the pleasing scent of old books greeting Tintin as he stepped in. The man at the front desk glanced up with a friendly smile.

''Mr. Tintin! How are you this fine day?''

Tintin grinned boyishly.

''I'm quite well, Mr. Harison. How is business?''

Harison gave a half-hearted shrug, pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe his desk.

''Not so wonderful, I'm afraid to say. Folks are scared stiff from all this terrorist business. Did you hear what happened this morning?''

Tintin leaned forward on the desk a bit, his light blue eyes alight with curiosity.

''I haven't had time to.''

''You? Blimey, that's unusual. Well, they found a cop on Trinity Way, around eight o'clock, I'd say...the poor bloke was beaten half dead, all torn up. He wasn't making much sense, saying things 'bout 'punishment' and all sorts of strange names. He died in the hospital an hour later.''

Harison shook his head sadly.

''Something is very off around here. Why, a shooting and a murder, all in one week? Do you think they may be connected?''

Tintin raised his eyebrows, his lips a tight line.

''It's difficult to say. If they are connected, then we can be fairly certain that something will happen again.''

Harison spoke through a sigh, ''Ah, well. At least you're on our side, Tintin.''

There was a brief silence, and Tintin looked down at his hands.

''What was it you wanted, Tintin? I know you always drive a hard bargain.''

The boy glanced up.

''I was hoping to get a notepad.''

Mr. Harison pulled down a stack of notepads down from behind his desk.

''0.75£ for each.''

Tintin selected a leather-bound book with sewn binding and passed Harison 5£.

''Keep the change. I wish you and your family good health,'' Tintin smiled. Harison brightened, looking from his hand to Tintin's face gratefully.

''God bless you, Tintin.''

''And you. Excuse me, but I have a lot of work to do. Good day.''

Tintin tucked the notepad into the pocket of his trench coat, and stepped outside into the dimming light. Snowy barked in greeting, wriggling his tail joyously. _You're finally back, Tintin!_

The boy leaned down to fondle the terrier's snow white fur, smiling.

''Alright, boy. Let's go home.''

Tintin was roughly a mile away from Marlinspike Hall when he started to pick up strange details. Details like a constant rustling behind him, so faint he wondered if he was just imagining it. Snowy walked with his paws and head close to the ground, occasionally stopping and looking over his shoulder with a suspicious growl. Finally, Tintin turned to look behind them, not seeing anything out of the ordinary at first. Then he noticed a glimmer, a fraction of moonlight reflected against something in the darkness.

''Great snakes,'' he breathed; on instinct, his body turned and started running, his feet pounding against the dirt too loud, too hard. The gritty sound of of rubber abrading dirt and the sharp growl of an engine hastened his legs, his run turning into a sprint. Heart pounding, palms sweating, mind racing. Blinding light exploded from behind him suddenly, turning his back and legs silver. He saw his own shadow leap to life on the ground ahead of him, tall and thin, stenciled from artificial light. The engine's growl intensified, turning into a savage roaring, and Tintin could hear the wheels churning over the ground only a few feet behind him. Snowy yelped and shot out ahead as Tintin dove sideways into the undergrowth, the brush doing little to break his fall. There was a screech of brakes. He groaned, standing up unsteadily, his vision shimmying before his eyes. A car door slammed, male voices drifting through the darkness.

''He's jumped into the wood.''

''Aw, won't you shut up?!''

''Get back in, you idiots.''

The engine abruptly jumped back to life with a sputter, and with a jolt Tintin realized it was coming towards him again. He blindly shinnied up an old beech tree, tenderness in his muscles causing him to slip.

''Crumbs,'' he spat, struggling to steady himself as he slid down to the ground. The shrill snapping of branches grew louder, and Tintin made one last attempt to escape. With nausea starting to build, his vision starting to still, he turned, planning to dodge the car and race back to the road. Suddenly, something wrapped itself around Tintin's neck, and he wheezed, struggling to free himself. His feet were lifted clear off the ground as lithe, masculine muscles tightened over his collarbones. A deep chuckle tickled his ear, as the black car crashed through the brush, still speeding towards him relentlessly. The voice murmured something, the raspy breath making Tintin cringe.

''Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Reporter.''

The breath was sucked out of Tintin's lungs as he was forced forwards roughly. The smooth metallic nose of the car hit him like a brick wall, and he lost consciousness as he was flung up over the roof, landing with a dull thud in the dirt behind. A tall, dark figure stepped forwards, looking down at Tintin's motionless body silently. Droplets of rain started to pelt down from the dark sky, clinging to Tintin's skin and then slowly trickling to the ground. The figure chuckled in a deep voice, hardly loud enough to be heard above the pitter-patter of rain.

''We've played a bit rough with you, boy, yet I don't consider you lucky to have survived tonight. Your hours are numbered.''


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Who's ready for chapter 4? I sure am. After overcoming some serious writer's block on this chapter, I'm happy to finally get it online. I know some things on here aren't one hundred percent perfect yet, so I will most likely be touching some things up, but the plot will stay the same. I hope you all are enjoying your summer(if you live in the Northern Hemisphere)! **Important suggestion:** Try listen to "Torn(Redux)" by Nathan Lanier(on Youtube) while reading this, it was a great help in getting me writing!

Now, I realize that you all are here for the story, but if you're interested, I can give a little "About the Author". I am a 15-year-old girl, born and raised in the USA. I live in Connecticut. My family is amazing and very big, as my grandmother had 13 kids. My mom's side of the family lives in South Africa. I have dirty-blonde hair and olive-toned skin and hazel eyes. Anyway, I started really getting into my writing in 5th grade, which I have my teachers to thank for. They really inspired me, and the activities we did as a class helped my growth as a writer soooo much. Of course, I was always a bookworm, spending most of my time with my nose buried in a book. My faith in God also is a big inspiration in my writing. Thank you for reading this, if you did, and here's Chapter 4!

Tintin's eyelids fluttered open, his weary eyes meeting darkness. His body felt heavy, and his head throbbed mercilessly. For every breath he took, he felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest, like he was being suffocated from the inside out. He tilted his head, the pain momentarily sharpening. He was upright, tied to what he assumed was a chair. Barely audible voices lulled in the back of his mind, a fragment of conversation here and there.

"...out cold for six hours…"

"...the procedure...his notepad…."

Tintin blinked, his eyelashes brushing against something tough and leathery, pressed tight against his face. His arms were secured down firmly, and he felt the familiar roughness of wood until his fingertips.

"Ah, he's awake."

Tintin turned his attention to the voice. The other voices had died down, leaving an empty silence in their places.

"Mr. Tintin, the young reporter with big ideas; the one who has foiled so many other brilliant schemes. I have no doubt in my mind you intend to do the same with our little organization?"

Tintin slowly licked his dry lips.

"Organization? An organization of crime?" He muttered, his voice treading lightly. The voice chuckled mockingly from behind him.

"What did you think this was? A handful of deranged lunatics with guns? No, more likely you were like the rest of those idiots who passed it on as terrorism."

There was an exaggerated sigh, and Tintin could almost taste the annoyance in the man's voice.

"I thought you were better than this, _Tintin_. This game is no fun to play with amateurs."

Tintin pressed his fists against the ropes, setting his jaw. _Keep your cool, Tintin. Play for information._

"So you're a mafia then?"

"By now, I suppose we are. 'The Belgian Mafia'. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

 _Steady...I must keep him talking._

"But...everyone knows mafias are secretive and...a public shooting isn't exactly-"

"Do you think we picked up a manual?!" the voice burst, striding forward. A hand grasped Tintin's chin and jerked it upwards, Tintin's body undergoing a small spasm of pain in response.

"Of course, you're _used_ to playing by the rules, aren't you? You and your damned simple-mindedness. Well, let me tell you something, reporter."

He gave the boy a firm shake. The pain doubled, to a point where Tintin's eyes started to tear up, before gradually fading away.

"Fear is man's greatest weapon. With it, he may not only control the body but the mind. And when he controls the mind, well..."

There was a dry chuckle.

"The world becomes his playground."

The man stepped back, releasing him. He spoke again, this time to his companions.

"Teach him a lesson, boys."

They obediently stepped forward and cut Tintin's arms and legs from the chair, securing his hands behind him. He clenched his teeth in disgust, catching a heavy whiff of tobacco and alcohol from the men. They were about to march forward when the sound of a door being thrown open caught their attention.

"Elliot? What's going on?"

The voice was feminine, and surprisingly familiar. Tintin searched his memory desperately, but couldn't put a face to the voice. As he focused in on the voice, he could almost pick out something foreign mixed in with the accent, yet it was too light to define. Tintin's thoughts were brought back to the present by a familiar sigh from Tintin's left.

"Stupid girl...you know what you are to call me here. Who sent you?"

His voice was hard and angry, yet it was riddled with a note of gentleness, as a father might scold his child.

"Tumey said you caught the reporter boy, Tintin. I see he spoke truly."

 _That voice. I know her voice, but from where?_

"Tumey is an ass, Alice. He obviously doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut."

The girl's voice tightened.

"Y-you're sending him to the...the-"

"Yes, and I suggest you leave this room, and forget this business. _Now_."

"P-please, I want to be there. I want to prove myself to you, and the experience would be valuable."

Elliot sighed, a silence weighing heavy on the room.

"Fine. Go with them. But listen close, one word out of you and I'll have you flogged myself."

Tintin was then hustled forward, the fear in his chest starting to build, outweighing the pain.

 _It doesn't look like you're going to get out of this one, Tintin._

/*/*/*

"What shall we start with?"

"Drug 'im up so he doesn't pass out. We can start with the flogging."

Tintin swallowed, his palms and brow breaking into a cold sweat. He listened to the shuffling of feet for a few moments, preparing himself for the agony that was sure to follow.

The hiss of a whip sounded, and he clenched his jaw, bracing himself.

"This one works fine. Fifty or so should do it."

He released a shaky breath. The next one will be real. It will be painful.

The dreaded hiss never came. There was a dull thud, and something large fell to the ground.

"What th-"

 _Thud_.

There was a tense silence, and Tintin could hear someone breathing, shaky and light. _The girl, of course_. Tintin let out a quiet gasp, pressing his forehead into his forearms. _I mustn't underestimate her. She's unpredictable._

Tintin suddenly felt a soft tugging at the metal cuffs on his wrists.

"Don't move."

A moment later, something crashed into the metal chain connecting the cuffs.

 _She must be mad_ , he thought. He tensed, waiting motionlessly. Sure enough, the chain received another hard strike, fully snapping in two. Quick as lightning, Tintin ripped the leather blindfold off, ignoring the painful protests in his chest, and launched himself at the blurry figure beside him, pinning the girl against the wall. She took in a sharp breath, struggling helplessly against him. As Tintin's eyes adjusted to the light, he picked out wavy brown hair, a fair complexion, and lastly, a pair of deep blue eyes.

"A-Anya?" He stammered, a flush creeping up his neck. She narrowed her brow, meeting his gaze head-on. Her struggling arms stilled, going limp against his. Tintin swallowed, leaning back an inch. Her eyes did not waver from his, and Tintin could only hear her shaky breathing.

"L-let me g-go…." she demanded weakly.

"Alright...alright, I'm going to let you go, but don't...don't try anything," Tintin stammered, releasing his grip on her. She folded her arms in front of her, her gaze retreating to the floor. Tintin took a breath, and tried again.

"What _are_ you doing here, Anya?"

She bit her lip, looking very much like a naughty schoolgirl.

"I couldn't let them hurt...I would never forgive myself," she murmured softly.

"Wh-why?" he implored, tilting his head, willing her to meet his eyes.

"All those times I've stood by, while the people beside me inflict unspeakable pain...at least I know you've done nothing to deserve that," she replied, her voice hardening as she turned her gaze onto his; "There's no time. They will be back soon. _You_ have to get out of here."

"They will kill you. You know they will," Tintin stammered.

"Don't you think I know that?" she hissed, squeezing her hands into fists. She glared at him, as if force-feeding him the three words he knew he would have to say.

Tintin felt his stomach turn, and he felt a stab of pity for this girl, for whatever she had witnessed in the past. He shook himself; there was no time to waste.

"Come with me," he asked, breathlessly. Her tense expression faded slightly with unspoken relief, and perhaps a hint of spite.

"Come with you? That's an idea. In fact, that's the smartest thing I've ever heard you say."

"Alright, alright! We don't have time right now, okay? Can you find a way out of here?"

"Just follow me."

As quickly as the decision was made, she was on her feet and pulling the heavy steel door open, her brain working miles ahead of her feet. Tintin stumbled after her, careful to shut the door without slamming it. She took a left, holding the drag of her navy blue dress up. The dress caught Tintin's attention for half a second; the back dipped halfway down her back, lying flat around her waist. The hem of the dress covered to her knees, but it wasn't poofy or extravagant like dresses Tintin had seen before. It was simple, yet strangely appealing. He swallowed, hastening after her.

"All these hallways look the same. How on earth do you find your way around?"

The edges of Anya's mouth quirked upwards slightly as she glanced about for danger.

"I'm quite good with direction."

Tintin raised his eyebrows.

"Really?"

"At least, when using your compass."

Tintin felt his pockets, exasperated.

"Where did y-"

"When they catch unfortunate game like you, they leave your belongings on the table in the South wing...I managed to snatch some things, but your money was taken. Sorry about that."

"No, don't worry about it. Did you see my notepad?"

"That was confiscated to the boss. Anything of importance is."

She stopped sharply at the end of the hall, where it branched off into two different directions. Tintin bumped into her lightly, quickly steadying himself.

"I usually use the exit on the North wing."

They heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps. Anya flinched, looking about her wildly. The way the sound bounced off the concrete walls, it was difficult to decide which direction it was coming from. Tintin grimaced as the footsteps drew closer, pressing his back against the wall. _We're sitting ducks out in the open like this._

"Anya, we have to hide in one of these rooms," he breathed, motioning towards the line of steel doors on the opposite wall. A distant voice called out as the footsteps drew nearer.

"Hurry," Anya whispered, following him as he slipped behind one of the doors. There was a rustle, and a gasp of surprise inside as Tintin pushed the door shut. They sharply looked to where the sound came from. Two heads jerked up from splotchy white sheets on a small, rickety bed. Anya stole a glance at Tintin as he tensed up beside her, the skin over his jaw dimpling as he clenched his teeth. A large, shirtless man pulled himself up from the bed, with a growl of fury, and flung himself at Tintin. The boy was usually quick on his feet, but his injured state and initial shock slowed him. He backed against the door and slid down sharply, his chest feeling on fire. The man slung his fist into the door painfully, but was quick to recover. He wound up his leg to kick Tintin, who rotated sideways as fast as his body allowed. The man suddenly froze, glass shards exploding from the back of his bald head. His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled sideways to the ground. Anya looked down at him with a satisfied scoff, then turned to the woman, who was still in the bed. She held up her hands in defeat.

"Don't hurt me, I won't say anything. I don't live here."

She threw her legs over the other side of the bed, wrapping some sort of garment around her. Tintin pulled himself to his feet, holding his side with one hand. He could feel two of his ribs were more loose than the others, and grimaced. The woman smelled strongly of alcohol and smoke; as she passed Tintin, she paused, summoning her best seductive smile, and put a hand on her hip provocatively.

"I can't say I enjoyed _him_ , but I'd have you for half price any day. We can do it right now, if you want to."

Tintin stiffened, Anya looking from the woman to him in alarm.

"No, thank you," he replied firmly.

"Too bad," she said with a shrug, fixing Anya with a dirty glare. She flounced out the door and turned left. Tintin glanced after her, then turned to Anya again.

"We can't leave out the North wing. The place is swarming with thugs. See, they're all heading that way."

He motioned to a short, Mexican man walking briskly down the hall.

"But that's the only way I know where to go! The Southern wing is for the high-ranking officers only."

Tintin gazed into her eyes seriously.

"You can do this, Anya. Just follow your instinct. If we even find a window-"

"There are no windows!" she blurted, exasperated, "There may be a door, but it's going to be closely guarded. We'll never…."

She stopped short, her mouth half-open. Her eyes gleamed, refocusing on Tintin.

"What is it?" he implored.

"I have an idea," she said, a smile slowly creeping up her face. "Yes, an idea. But you have to trust me."

"I think I can manage that," he replied, her smile catching on his lips.

"Perfect. Now, follow me."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Here is what the plane roughly looks like: url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwisn4_-1_LVAhUEZCYKHedeA8IQjRwIBw&url=http%3A%2F% .com%2Fold-plane-helicopter_g%257CmaB235%257CQKySDkN69NPwVVp*TBrsVf0InkvaZCa8Ls%2F&psig=AFQjCNFFx4K0Jz3rNR0KZAKNm9xzu0UneA&ust=1503760880990984

(I obviously did not take this picture, CTO)

P.S. ~ Just to be clear, Anya has a European accent like Tintin's, but it still holds noticeable traces from the accent she was born into, the (North) American accent. I quirked some things on Chapter 4 to emphasize that. Bouncing back to the present, I just want to thank all my readers again; **Kat,** your comment made me smile, thank you! All these positive comments are awesome! :)

The bushes rustled as Snowy passed through, the branches snagging his mud-stained pelt. He kept his nose to the mossy ground, diligently following his master's trail. Guilt pricked at him for every step his sore paws took, pressing him forward. _I should never have deserted him_ , he thought miserably, as once again, the scent trail before him came to a pointless end. The rain had washed away most of the events from the previous night, trampled woodland starting to spring back to its original state in the pale light of dawn. The tang of stale blood caught Snowy's attention, his nose leading him to an old beech tree. He examined the bark, dark droplets catching his attention. The metallic scent of blood made his lip curl, and he raised his snout sharply. _Tintin is hurt!_

Snowy's legs moved with swift urgency, stinging as they glanced over the gravel road. As he finally came upon the familiar gardens of Marlinspike, he skidded to a stop at the main entrance and started scratching the wooden doors, barking madly. A moment later, the door opened, and a tall, familiar man peeked out. "Snowy? Where have y-"

Snowy bolted past Nestor, Marlinspike's butler, before he could finish his sentence. He raced into the parlor, barking hysterically, until he heard a wonderfully familiar holler.

"Nestor, what in tarnation is going on here?!"

Captain Haddock briskly entered the parlor, yelling through a mouthful of toothpaste. Snowy barked again, fiercely motioning to the doorway.

"Snowy? Where's Tintin?"

He followed the small white terrier out the door, and eventually to the scene of Tintin's disappearance. Of course, the police were called, a search party was organized, and the press chipped in for gossip, but the beloved ginger reporter was nowhere to be found. As much as the world tried, Tintin was long gone, tucked away in a place their wildest imaginations could not come close to defining.

/*/*/*

Anya grunted as she pulled the slanted cover of the air vent free. The screws sprung from their places in the wall and dropped onto the ground, not before glancing off Tintin's arms and back. He kept his hands firmly around Anya's ankles, careful to keep her centered on his shoulders. The small room around him had a gloomy air to it, the only thing separating it from complete darkness a dim lamp that hung from the low ceiling. Tintin glanced over as the vent flumped onto the bed in the corner of the room.

"Okay, I'm ready."

He smoothly hoisted Anya upwards, marveling at the lightness of her feminine body. She struggled against gravity for a few chilling moments, sending clanky echoes through the vent.

"Easy does it...are you okay?"

"Yeah...there's a lot of spiders up here."

"Alright, I'm coming."

He swung his arms for momentum before pushing up off the ground, the muscles under his sweater tightening as he pulled himself through the small entrance.

Anya had already started crawling forward, feeling her way through the darkness blindly. The vent was foul and moldy, a masterpiece of spiderwebs and rust.

"How did you know about the vent?"

He barely whispered, yet his voice carried through the thin air at an alarming pace.

"There is one in my room," she responded softly. "Cripes, these are nasty spiders."

Tintin silently agreed with her. He continually paused to swipe some sort of creepy crawler from his face and arms, gritting his teeth in disgust. They passed over a vent, orange light filtering through the spaces. Among the light, voices below drifted to their ears.

"Sir, we sent the message. Everyone is searching, but they are nowhere to be found."

"Keep looking! If they are not found within the next hour, we clear the area, understood?!"

"Yes, sir!"

Tintin recognized neither voice. His mind was already starting to buzz with questions, questions that struggled to be connected to the evidence before him.

Anya kept moving, her knees shuffling quietly against the floor of the vent. They soon came upon a part of the passageway that had an unusual perpendicular attachment.

"Do you..."

Tintin's question faded from his lips as Anya shimmied up the passage. She was gone for about half a minute, before sliding down.

"Odd," she whispered, "I didn't know there was another floor. The vent is blocked off."

"Do you think it could be dislodged?"

Anya glanced back up, pursing her lips doubtfully.

"We wouldn't be able to, at this angle."

A muffled voice was born from above.

"Of course it was Alice. That damned girl has been a useless whore since day one. Cain has been too soft on her."

"He certainly has an appalling taste in women, if she can even be called that."

"Women...disgusting creatures."

Tintin narrowed his brow, glancing over at Anya. Her face was blank, her gaze lost to thought.

"Anya...are they talking about you?"

His voice was barely a whisper, yet immediately her eyes rose to his. She didn't say anything, but the hurt in her eyes was all that he needed to see to answer his question.

 _/*/*/*_

They had been trekking through the vent system for half an hour now, their knees sore and bruised, their clothes coated with spiderwebs. Now, they were at the end of the system, the final vent ahead. Fresh white light filtered into the tunnel with unusual strength. As they crawled on, the rooms grew quieter and quieter, until they were met by an eerie silence. Anya raised her voice more comfortably.

"It sounds as if they evacuated."

"They would never give up a place like this so quickly, so easily...something isn't right here."

Tintin kept on at a sturdy pace behind her. She listened to the faint sound of his knees hitting the bottom of the tunnel, mixed with her own. Almost out, she thought, reaching for the vent ahead. To her surprise, the steel bars were young and smooth under her fingers. As hard as she pulled in the tight space, it wouldn't budge.

"Here, let me try."

Tintin flattened himself against the side as much as he could, barely squeezing past Anya. He braced his feet against the wall surrounding the vent and gripped the bars with a firm grip. He heaved, pulling as hard as he could. The vent creaked, but it held its place.

"Maybe it's supposed to be pushed."

"Good idea," Tintin panted. "Please help me, if you can."

He positioned his feet behind him. Anya pressed a finger to her chin.

"Hm…"

She decided it would be no good to push him, plus, there wasn't enough room to grab around his waist. She could brace her back against his...well, his 'behind', but she didn't really jump at that idea either. Her gaze drifted to his feet, the soles of his shoes slipping over the metallic floor. Perfect.

Anya stepped back a pace and sat, pressing her feet onto his. She held herself steady on the walls of the vent, giving Tintin a test push. He jolted forward in surprise, quickly recovering.

"Ah-! Er, yes, that's clever. Stay like that, Anya, I'll count to three."

Yes, quite clever, if I do say so myself, herr herr, Anya thought to herself in an exaggeratedly annoying version of Tintin's voice, chuckling quietly to herself. She was tempted to take the thought a step further, but decided another time, as Tintin had started to count already.

"One, two, three!"

She pushed her feet against his as hard as she could, at the same time being pushed back a little as he used her little idea to its full effect. With a loud CLANG, the vent was sent clattering across the floor of the room. Tintin looked around cautiously before pulling himself through, turning to offer his hands to Anya. She gladly accepted, and was pulled up from the darkness. Instantly the two searched themselves for spiders. Tintin ran a hand through his ginger tuft, releasing small clouds of dust, and brushed down his sweater. Anya groaned as she furiously swiped down her dress.

"I definitely won't be missing that place," she said decidedly. Tintin didn't respond. He took slow, careful steps as he observed the room, his body tense and alert. The room was clean, contrasting the rest of the hideout, and seemed to represent a Laboratory. Anya shuddered as she looked around, feeling goosebumps pop up on her skin. The lab tables had been recently wiped clean, their metallic surfaces dully reflecting the ceiling lights. An eerily dry whistling sounded amidst the silence, barely audible. Tintin crouched down to observe some testing cylinders containing unidentifiable fluids. He turned to Anya, contempt etched on his face.

"Did you know about this place?"

Anya shook her head distantly, feeling her heart drop a little. The anger in his voice unsettled her.

"Nobody is allowed near this place. I had no idea-"

"They are illegally testing, making and using illegal substances. I recognize some of the Latin in these names…there seems to be a lot of business here with drugs..."

Anya left Tintin to his discovery, listening for the whistling sound again. It blended in well with the silence, making Anya wonder if she was just imagining it. Noticing a door on the opposite wall, she tried the handle. To her surprise, it opened, and the whistling sound sharpened noticeably. She peeked in, feeling a prickle of unease in her stomach. Inside, two large tanks took up most of the space. A birdcage hung above them, completely empty except for a motionless lump on the bottom. Anya didn't need nor dare draw closer to know what was happening. With her heart hammering in her chest, she backed sharply out of the closet and slammed the door. Tintin turned to her, his eyes wide with surprise.

"What is it?!"

Anya's mouth felt dry, and she struggled to push the words past her throat.

"G-Gas! Gas! They're trying to kill us!"

"You're sure?!"

"Positive!"

Her voice was strangled and high. Tintin's eyes wildly scanned the room, locking onto the door.

"This way!"

Anya took after Tintin, out into the hallway.

"W-w-we could have been in the tunnels when-"

"We can thank our lucky stars we weren't. Did you breathe any of the air?"

"I-I don't think so…"

"Any weakness? Dizziness? Nausea or pain?"

"N-no I'm fine-"

"How did you know?"

Tintin turned and passed through two huge wooden doors, the inside looking like a garage. He glanced back to see that Anya was following him.

"I just looked in the closet and found the tanks. There was a birdcage in there, like coal miners use, and the bird was dead…"

"Fine. We should have at least ten minutes to get out of here...you're American, aren't you?"

They pounded up a set of stairs, a wooden door greeting them at the top.

"You're asking me this now?!"

"Well, I would have asked about the accent earlier if we weren't always on the brink of death-"

"Yes! I am American! Born and raised in New York, mostly!"

The door swung open, a gust of warm air hitting them like a wave. Tintin could almost laugh for relief as he looked around him.

"Windows!" Anya cried joyfully, racing forward, but it was not just the windows that caught Tintin's attention. A small grey aircraft sat patiently among the shadows, one of its metallic sides reading 'USA - 29935'.

"An American plane. How peculiar," Tintin mumbled as he strode around the plane, taking a quick look at the engine before calling Anya. She trotted over, a huge smile lighting up her face.

"Isn't this the best feeling in the world? We're not gonna die!"

"Don't be so noisy, we aren't safe yet," Tintin said seriously. He patted the back seat.

"Jump in. I'll be right there."

Anya looked after him in bewilderment as he dashed to the wide sliding doors, moving to push them apart. He shrank back in pain suddenly, with an audible yelp.

"Tintin?!"

Anya hurried over to him, her dark hair flowing wildly behind her.

"Tintin, you're hurt. Let me."

She pushed the metallic door as hard as she could. It slid back with a shrill squeak, the metal following the worn markings of its path. Tintin steadied himself against the metal door with a gasp.

"Anya, I can manage. It's just my rib. Please just go sit in the plane."

Anya scoffed as she pushed the other door back.

"Honestly, Tintin, you're too proud. I'm not incapable of opening a few d-"

"Anya, look out!"

Tintin reached out to grab her shoulder just in time. A patrol of men in gas masks marched briskly past, talking to each other rapidly. They didn't seem to notice the half-opened garage door as they passed, disappearing around the side of the 'airport'. Tintin let out a shaky breath, clutching his side.

"Anya, listen to me. I'm going to ask you to do something necessary and dangerous."

Anya's eyes flashed with eagerness in the dim light.

"What is it?"

"When I say, push these doors open and jump in the plane, okay?"

She nodded curtly, looking down.

"Sure...I can do that."

"Okay. Get ready."

Tintin disappeared from beside her, pulling himself into the pilot seat. He tried to think past the pain, but his head felt light and his vision was swaying. Stay awake, Tintin. Stay awake.

"Now!" he called weakly, placing his feet on the rudder pedals. He adjusted the flaps roughly to a ten degree angle for takeoff, pushing the throttle to full on. The plane started forward with a rickety hum, the nose propeller transforming into a blur. Anya completely opened the doors and jumped onto the side of the plane as it came by, tumbling ungracefully into the back seat.

"When did you learn to fly a plane?" she gasped, watching Tintin's hands working the controls.

"I've had experience. Stay hidden back there, and put the seat belt on."

Anya pulled the buckle from in between the cushions; it came up with a jolt, the navy leather frayed and unattached. She tossed it out, crouching down under the seat. She could hear male voices approaching, and they didn't seem pleased. She peeked over the side of the plane cautiously, the world around her passing by like a bad dream. Anya flinched as gunshots rattled suddenly through the air.

"Damn," Tintin hissed under his breath, squeezing the yoke until his fingers turned white. Anya felt around her with trembling hands.

"Please, please, please…." she breathed. Her hands brushed against something hard and smooth under the cushions; with a shaky gasp she pulled a silver pistol from under the seat. Her stomach turned as the plane swooped upwards suddenly, the squeaky wheels losing contact with the ground. Anya forced herself to focus, gripping the gun with both hands, leaning out to fire at the armed mob behind them. They had started to slow down, shaking their fists angrily at the escaping plane. The barbed fence that had once trapped them inside looked small as it shot out from under them. We're free…

She watched the ground below her grow smaller and smaller, her eyes wide with wonder.

"Everything is so small, Tintin."

Tiny dots raced busily along the roads, and the plane was filled with a peaceful quiet.

"Do you think they will come after us? I mean, they wouldn't right away, but they definitely won't give up. They could even be tracking this plane as we-"

The plane lurched suddenly. Anya shrieked, flailing for something to grab onto. She was thrown into the side of the plane roughly, picturing herself falling, falling, falling over the side and into the world underneath her with a shudder.

"Tintin!" she shrieked.

There was no response. Anya pulled herself up on the pilot chair, yelling his name over the sound of the engine. Tintin was slumped over the controls, one arm caught on the yoke. Anya pulled him off the control panel and slapped him in the face.

"WAKE UP!"

The ginger reporter made no response, his head flopping back down. Anya sighed in frustration, crawling over the seat.

"You're so annoying!" she hissed to no one, fighting back a wave of tears. She yanked the yoke straight, steadying herself against the seat with her other hand. The plane lurched upright again, the engine groaning in response. Anya's mind froze; she sat back in Tintin's lap, lightly placing her feet on the pedals. They were high up and still escalating. _Fix the problem. What would make this hunk of metal go up?_ The countless switches and buttons and dials before her made her head spin. _On, off, R.M., flashing lights...How about the wings?_ The flaps were erect. If she could remember correctly, they should be down….

Anya tried the rudder pedals. _Perfect_. The flaps responded. Anya felt a spark of confidence as the plane straightened, gliding smoothly through the air. She let out a shaky breath, relaxing her tense shoulders. Tintin shifted slightly from under her, making a quiet moaning sound. Anya, realizing how close they were, felt a rush of self-consciousness. _Please don't wake up._

"A-Anya?"

Shit.

"Tintin, I can explain-"

"You're...flying the plane…"

"Oh...well, yeah, I mean, you blacked out."

Anya shifted off him and squeezed herself onto the seat. Tintin scooted over, rubbing his head.

"H-how did you do that?"

 _Are we ignoring the fact that I was just sitting on you?_

"My uncle is a pilot. He took me out in the plane sometimes. I-I kind of just...figured it out."

Tintin 'hm'ed in response. Anya looked over at him curiously. His hands had returned to their place on the yoke, his eyes glazed over with weariness.

"Thank you for getting us out of there," she murmured.

"You're thanking me?"

He laughed softly, shaking his head.

"You really are something, Anya Shan."

Anya smiled, looking away. The sky above them was a deep blue, the clouds lazily drifting by.

"Do you think you'll be okay, Tintin?"

"Yes. Broken ribs will heal. I just need to rest."

"I can drive for a while if you want to now."

Tintin narrowed his brow, pondering for a moment.

"You'll stay on this course and wake me up if you need anything?"

"Of course."

"Well...okay. Thank you, but please don't let me sleep too long."

He carefully climbed into the backseat.

"By the way, where are we headed?"

"America. We have a plane to return."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Hello everyone! Please, please understand that I am trying my hardest to get this story straight and uploaded soon, but I'm trying to write a few chapters ahead before I post. My apologies for the confusion, but **YES, I DID PRETTY MUCH REPLACE THIS WHOLE CHAPTER.** With the setting, and the time period, I feel it would be more likely that our two escapees' first encounters in America would be with males. I have a huge document of cutouts in this story that I might show you guys someday when I finish. **About Anya's appearance:** I know I've not been fluent, it's been difficult trying to put a pin in my rampant imagination. I confirm now that Anya has brown wavy hair and fair skin, sorry for not keeping that consistent! Your reviews are candy to me, you don't understand how much it helps to know I have supporters when I hit a rough spot in my writing. Now, I do have a little message for a guest **"ME"** : Thank you for the review, it was very helpful. I did research when converse sneakers came out, and the exact year is 1908. Now, they weren't popular until the 20's and 80's(though I don't know where), but to be on the safe side, I switched Anya's converse for "casual sneakers". Your other suggestions would definitely have improved the story, and I would have already changed these things myself if I wasn't so far into the story...I will keep them in mind for after I finish the storyline. Thank you again!

The sky had been dark for two hours. Below the little gray aircraft, the dark waters of the North Atlantic Ocean reflected the moon from under a thin layer of clouds. The world below was gloomy and insignificant, but above, the stars glimmered brightly, each performing a dance of their own. Anya yawned as she looked up at the starry sky, the sound of the engine humming quietly in her ears. It had been around five hours since they took off, and she had started to become extremely bored.

"Tintin, you must have done this a million times over. Not knowing where you're going, on the run from someone, but still moving forward. Living on the edge."

She sighed, slumping back in the seat a little.

"I wish my life was like that...I'm either bored out of my mind or terrified or...lonely."

That last word lay heavy on her mind, and she was pulled into a silence of thought. Her head was suddenly filled with the things she wanted to say, things she wanted to talk about for years that she couldn't say to anyone. She realized, with a flutter in her stomach, that now there was someone, someone she could confide in.

/*/*/*

"Tintin...Tintin, wake up! Something's wrong."

Tintin's head felt like lead as his eyes slowly opened. His breath came out frosty and white, his skin thin and dry in the sharp embrace of the cold. The sky above was a shade in between darkness and light, caught between night and morning. He struggled to identify the voice calling for him at first, his eyes confirming in place of his mind. Anya's dark blue eyes were wide with worry as she leaned over the seat in front of him.

"Wh-what is it?" he stammered, his breath frosty white.

"We're being followed!"

Her words sent a chill down his spine, and he sat up abruptly.

"What?! Where?"

Anya pointed up into the sky behind him. He could see, faintly in the distance, two dark spots against the pale gray sky, too still and large to be birds yet too far to be properly seen. Tintin motioned to Anya with his hand to sit forward in the seat.

"Lower the plane. Perhaps the layer of clouds will cover us, if only long enough to delay them."

"They're moving faster than us, Tintin!"

"Just listen to me. When I say, we are going to switch places, as fast as you can, but be careful. There's a gun in the backseat here."

Anya bit her lip and kept her hands fixed on the yoke. Her ears were throbbing so painfully she thought they would explode any moment. She silently longed for a piece of bubblegum, the kind her uncle always gave her with a wink as they started to climb higher and higher into the endless blue sky; she was too young to understand why at that time, but she knew to keep it in her mouth until they were back on the ground, until the gum was stale and hard in her mouth. As the plane dipped down under the layer of clouds, the pain in her ears seemed to multiply. She narrowed her eyes, struggling to regain her focus. They were stooping closer and closer to the water below, so close they could see the American ships chug patiently through the dark waves on their way out to sea. For the first time in days, she felt a spark of hope spring to life inside her, as she looked out over the side of the plane.

"Tintin! I think...I think I see land!"

A faint stretch of brown and green tinted the pale horizon. Tintin kept his eyes fixed to the skies, a handgun held firmly between his hands, his elbows resting on the smooth metallic spine of the aircraft..

"That's fine. Head that way, and don't stop descending."

Anya swallowed, her tongue dry and papery in her mouth, her hands trembling on the yoke.

"If...if we should not survive this…I-I'm not ready to die. I want to see my sister one last time. I want to tell my uncle I flew a plane."

Tintin couldn't tell her to stop saying such things. He couldn't tell her everything would be alright, that they would live, that she would, of course, see her family again. He realized, upon hearing she had a sister, that he still knew very little about her; he cursed himself silently for not making an effort to ask.

 _It can't end like this._

Tintin clenched his jaw as the two planes dipped below the thin cloud cover; their little aircraft could be shot out of the sky at any moment now.

"Anya, we're going to switch places now, okay? Just do as I told you."

Anya nodded numbly and pulled herself over the seat. Tintin placed his hands on her waist to see her over, giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze before taking his place behind the yoke. He could see vibrant green trees settled peacefully along the shore, their bushy tops swaying in the breeze.

 _This is our last hope_. There was a loud prattling sound from behind.

Tintin angled the plane downwards sharply, towards a large gap in the sea of trees, rounded and long; a lake, or pond, hidden among the foliage. With a simple flick of a lever, he cut the engine.

The gun slipped from Anya's hands, and she clung to the seat with all the strength she had left.

"Anya, take my hand!"

The ground seemed to be growing as they plummeted towards it, plucking the aircraft from the blue sky like a lifeless bird. Anya's hand trembled as she reached over the seat, her fingers searching blindly for his.

Tintin took her hand in his, leaning hard against his seatbelt, and pulled the rest of her over into the seat beside him. She uttered a small, breathless cry as she lost all gravity for a moment, and clung to him in terror.

"Don't let go of me," Tintin ordered, holding her securely against his chest. Neither of them could breathe as they disappeared into the forest, the endless green branches the last thing that crossed their eyes before the crushing impact of the plane hitting the ground knocked them into darkness.

/*/*/*

 _"She's been there for days. Can't you talk to her?"_

 _"What could I possibly say? She doesn't want to see me. She doesn't want to be here."_

 _"You are her father, for God's sake, man! Better you do something before she starves."_

 _Lewis Irvin sighed, dropping his gaze. His brown eyes were blank and lifeless, his skin pale and aged. He slowly rose from his desk, every movement heavy and drawn out._

 _"I'll talk to her."_

 _If it hadn't been for the faint rise and fall of her chest, he would have been sure she was dead. The way she stared blankly up at the ceiling, the way her hair was spread in clumps across her pillow and her bones jutted out against her ghostly skin made him think of a corpse. He cautiously took a step closer, and then another. He called her name._

 _"Anya."_

 _She blinked, once, in response, and twitched, keeping her gaze fixed upwards._

 _"Anya, get up. You need to stop this."_

 _As the girl continued to refuse to respond to him, he felt a dry kind of anger building in his chest. He stormed to her side and ripped the bed covers off her, exposing her boney, malnourished frame. She finally drew her blank gaze to meet his eyes, a flicker of fear sparking to life amidst the dark blue._

 _"You will get out of bed and take care of yourself," Irvin ordered, grabbing her wrist and wrenching her to her feet. She tore away from him with a strength neither of them knew she possessed, her face dark with disgust._

 _"I hate you!" she hissed, wrapping her arms around herself. She cried out as her father came down on her with his fists, filling the room with her tiny agonized sounds until he cast her aside with a final threat and stormed out the room. For a while, she refused to lift her bloodied head from the moldy concrete. Seconds turned slowly into minutes. If she held still long enough, she could pretend she was dead, or dreaming, or anywhere else but here. She felt she would rather die than continue to pick up the pieces of her shattered life, to patiently try relight the frozen candle of hope inside her again._

/*/*/*

The lukewarm water had her in its grasp, pulling her down slowly. She passed in and out of consciousness as the water slowly saturated her lungs, until she was sure her eyes would never open again. Then, she felt a sickening pressure in her chest, and the water seemed to be sucked upwards. Her head threatened to explode as she turned her head to vomit, expelling mouthful after mouthful until she was empty inside. She lay there, shuddering, feeling naked and defenseless.

"My goodness, you must have swallowed the whole lake."

The voice was masculine; unfamiliar, but kind. Anya felt instinctive trust towards her unknown savior.

"Wh...I…"

"Don't try to talk now, girl."

 _Tintin. The plane._

"Tin...Tintin…"

The words scraped against her throat like a rusty knife. Her head was spinning, the image of a leafy green forest plummeting up towards her, the wind practically ripping her in half, the air sucked out of her lungs…

"There's someone else down there! He's trapped in the pilot's seat!"

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go pull 'im out!"

There was a soft splash in the distance. Anya's eyelids flickered open, the blurry figure above her shimmering like a reflection. She reached a trembling hand out, her fingers extended, frightened that the image would disappear under her touch, yet under her fingertips she felt the warmth of skin on his forearm, pressing his thumb against her wrist to find her pulse.

 _The plane. The lake._

"You two must be mad, taking a plane alone, at your ages. I can tell you weren't wearing a seatbelt; it's a wonder you survived, girl."

"Th-there wasn't one...the plane wasn't ours."

The stranger hummed in response, his voice light with curiosity. Anya felt a hand at her chin, tilting her head to the side.

"You've earned some mean scratches. Can you tell me your name?"

"I...I'm Jane." Anya pulled the lie seemingly out of nowhere; "Jane Edwards."

"Jane Edwards. And your friend's name?"

"H-he..."

Something in her mind clicked. Any American would recognize the world-famous reporter, especially with the advancing technology and wide-spread media America was famous for. She turned her gaze into the eyes of her rescuer, a middle-aged man with graying hair and stubble.

"H-he…."

"Hey, Matt? This one's coming to. You won't believe your eyes when you see him."

Anya curled and uncurled her fingers, her body feeling swollen. _Let's hope carrot-top over there knows to keep his trap shut._ The man with the graying hair, or Matt, disappeared from her side.

"Well…! I say. It's that Belgian reporter that broke up the Chicago gangs. I can't imagine what he's doing here. And what an entrance!"

"Perhaps he's taken to planes, eh, John?"

"There isn't an airport in Timbuktu that would give this 'fella a set of wings, not after that landing."

"I'm sure we can trust him, but what about the girl?"

"What about the girl? She's with him, isn't she?"

Anya strained her ears, waiting for the other man's response. _Yeah, what about me?_

"Well...I don't know...she could be a communist, or something. Or a refugee. Shouldn't we call someone?"

Anya dug her fingers into the earth, a rush of anger rising in her chest. _A female communist? He's crazy!_

"And send her off to be dealt with the government, without even getting a full sentence out of her? You know what they do to communists here. She would be frightened out of her mind."

Matt approached Anya and picked her up easily, his arms strong and lean.

"We'll take them back to the house and help them, like any honorable Americans would, and decide what to do with them later. That's final."

/*/*/*

As Tintin was set down on the bed, his head lolled back and forth with the movement, his limbs falling slack like those of a corpse. His cheeks were muddy and pale, the blood drawn away from the surface of his skin, giving him a ghostly glow. Anya, sitting on the bed opposite his, leaned closer curiously. There was a faint rise and fall to his chest, yet she worried. How much water had he swallowed? She had heard of children drowning in their sleep, after inhaling too much water swimming. It was called dry drowning, if she recalled correctly. Could it happen to adults, too?

"Thank you, sir." She looked up at the man who set Tintin down. He gave her a stony look in response, walking outside without bothering to close the door.

Anya chewed her lip, glancing about her nervously. The little shack the men had lead them to was on the edge of a chunk of property, in a grassy field surrounded by the forest trees. The midday heat drifted through the walls of the building, around shelves of empty jars and tools that looked to be floating against the wall. There was one window in between two creaky old beds with beige bed sheets, though it was so dusty it was difficult to look through. The open door had a simple latch on it that operated on the outside. Anya looked through the doorway now, where the two men outside were speaking in hushed tones. She noticed the man talking to Matt was dripping wet. Eventually, Matt's friend stormed off, not before giving Anya a dirty look through the doorway. She shivered, as if someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of her dress. Matt came into the shack and stood staring out the dusty window, his face solemn with thought. It was a few minutes before he spoke.

"You're welcome to stay here, though I wouldn't recommend you stay long. My neighbor, Andy Lennings, isn't too keen on keeping your situation quiet. He's got good intentions, but he's stubborn as a mule sometimes. I just need to know how long you plan on stayin', and what you need in the meantime,"

Anya looked from Matt to Tintin, as if by second nature. Of course, he was still asleep, or unconscious, or possibly dead. _I'm sort of happy I didn't wear a seatbelt._

She looked back at Matt, who crossed his arms expectantly.

"Well…" she started, "I think we should take care of our injuries first. Do you have a first aid kit?"

Matt nodded.

"Okay...well, some food and water. And clothes, please."

Matt nodded, and left. Anya smirked, feeling quite proud of herself. _Would you look who's giving orders now, Tintin?_

Tintin's ginger eyelashes quivered ever so slightly in the afternoon light that flowed through the window, his mouth set. Anya moved to sit beside him, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. Then, very cautiously, she reached her hand out and touched his arm.

He didn't stir. She felt his forehead, comparing the temperature to that of her own. Her mother used to do this to her when she was little, and she had to admit, it made her feel very grown up, in a poignant way. She sat there for a while, alone with her thoughts, listening to the sounds of the woods.

/*/*/*

The midday sun stung Tintin's eyes, forcing him to squint. The roof above him was low, and sloped. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The boy looked around the dusty little shack, scanning over shelves with jars, some filled with jam and some empty. His gaze finally came to rest on the figure that lay curled up on the bed opposite him, her sides rising and falling gently as she slept. He took a step forward, standing over her, as if in a haze. Her brown hair stuck out over her face and tucked itself under her neck, as if to hide something from him. His hand was suddenly reaching towards her face, pulling her nest of hair, curly from the humidity, back from her face, peaceful under the spell of sleep. Jagged cuts and scrapes disrupted the surface of her skin, and the beginning of a bruise had formed on her right temple. She stirred, and he quickly moved away, sitting back on his own bed so fast he felt pain pulse up from his ribcage. _Ah, there's that old ache._

Anya sat up and rubbed her eyes, pushing her hair away from her face. Her eyes flooded with relief when she saw him, the smallest hint of a smile caught in the corners of her lips.

"Hey, you."

Tintin smiled, rubbing his sore chest.

"Hey."

They both looked away for a while, staring at the window or mason jars absently. It was Tintin who broke the silence.

"So...I was hoping you could tell me what happened while I was unconscious. Where are we?"

Anya looked up sharply, as if snapping out of a transe.

"Oh, right. Of course, you don't remember. The plane went down in a lake, almost a mile from here…."

She quickly filled him in, animating her speech with little hand movements. She spoke hurriedly, feeling uncomfortable under Tintin's inquisitive gaze, heat flushing her cheeks. When she finished, Tintin nodded, casting his gaze towards the doorway.

"I don't suppose this Matt fellow left that basket for us?"

Anya practically jumped to her feet, talking all the while as she went to retrieve the basket.

"Oh right-! I did ask Matt for a few things. Clothes and food and such. More importantly medical supplies. See, we've got bandages and antibiotics and-"

"Slow down there," Tintin cut in, with a bemused chuckle. He set the basket on the ground and motioned for Anya to sit on the bed. She swallowed, folding her hands tightly as she obeyed.

"Now. Are you sure you're alright?" His soft blue eyes crashed into her eyes, a blade digging into her chest. She looked at her lap, her bloodied hands, her bruises, the cuts that looked like they would never heal. She looked up at Tintin, studying his boyish face, aglow with a thin layer of perspiration, and realized she hadn't felt so content as she did in that moment in many months. She smiled then, past the pain that stung her skin and bones, completely sure in her words.

"To be completely honest, Tintin, I really am happy to be here. I've broken free of something, if that makes sense."

Tintin nodded. He wanted to ask her what she felt she had left behind, but then again, he wasn't quite sure how she would react to such a personal question.

"So...let's open up the basket," he said.

At the top, there were an assortment of faded fabrics: a red crewneck, a grey flannel shirt, and two worn pairs of jeans. Anya chose the crewneck and the smaller pair of jeans, running a hand over the material.

"Good choice," Tintin said, "I'll step out a moment. You can call me in when you're done."

He took the leftover clothes with him, switching into them briskly outside the shack. The sleeves of the flannel needed to be rolled up, but the jeans thankfully weren't too oversized. Inside, Anya shed her dress, kicking off her worn flats. Her hands disappeared in the sleeves of the crewneck, but she couldn't complain, as it was relievingly comfortable. She pulled the jeans on, rolling the cuffs up and tying a rope around the waistline to keep the pants up. Satisfied, she went to call Tintin back in. She almost didn't recognize him at first, without his signature blue sweater and plus fours. It seems he felt the same way about her, the way his eyes swiftly traced her body before retreating to the ground.

"I think there's a medicine kit in the basket. We should…" Anya said.

"Yes, of course. I'll get it."

Tintin went for the basket, spilling its contents over his bed. He tossed a container of clear fluid to Anya, taking the other one for himself.

"This has antibiotics in it. Put it on all your cuts; we don't want to risk getting an infection."

Anya sat down and rolled up her sleeves, lathering the fluid down her arms and pressing her damp hands against her cheeks. Her worst cuts were on her face and arms, and the injuries on her legs were minimal; she was mostly bruised from the experience.

Tintin tapped himself under his left eye. "You really are a handsome shade of purple there."

Anya's hand rushed to her cheek, as if she were clamping a hand over her mouth.

"I must look a fright."

"Nonsense. Come on, you should wrap your cuts with thi-"

He froze up in pain suddenly, midway through his reach from the bed to the floor. Anya stood straight up, her eyes alarmed.

"Oh, shitbucket, your ribs."

She quickly moved him back so he was sitting upright again; Tintin gritted his teeth, hoarsely saying "ow" over again until he was settled.

"S-sorry-you don't want me to call Matt, do you?"

"I'd like you t-to s-stop swearing...-y-you're a lady, a-aren't y...you?" he gasped, curling the bedsheets into his fists.

Anya realized she was still positioned over him, her wavy brown hair brushing his shoulders. She stepped back, sitting hard on her bed. Neither of them moved until Tintin's breathing lightened. He cleared his throat, pressing a hand to his chest from under his shirt.

"I think I better be careful that this doesn't get worse. A broken rib usually can heal on its own, provided I take care of myself."

"Shouldn't you wrap it?"

"No, you really shouldn't wrap anything that's not bleeding."

Tintin's muscles were rigid, as much as he tried to relax them. He tried to take a few deep breaths to steady himself, but the pain in his chest only intensified.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Anya's voice was soft with concern.

"I will be," Tintin replied. "Enough about me. Let's eat and get some rest."


	7. Author's Note

Hello, everyone who still reads and supports my story. I'm sorry for the wait, but I'm even more sorry for what I have to say now. **I do not know for certain if I will finish this story.** I've been pushing this fact inside for a few months now, and really, I could just be emotional/hormonal and be overreacting, but I'm physically exhausted with this story. Every time I try type it, my brain is a blank slate and it feels more like a chore than what it used to be, something enjoyable and something I was practically swimming in inspiration for. **In the very least, I'm giving this a break and coming back to see if I can fix it up.** It's been a great learning experience, and I'm so grateful to every person who commented and helped me with it. **I'm under some stress/anxiety right now.** My High School has received a lot of bomb threats and shooting threats, following the Florida shooting that happened this past Valentine's Day. Some idiot started a fire in the bathroom. Every day I ponder what I would do in the event of an attack, and it's so wrong that the world has come to the point where we have to think about this. May God bless you guys and keep you safe, and me, is all I can say. Thanks again, and I'll hopefully see you soon.

UPDATE OF THIS UPDATE: I've had some time to think and you know how much you guys mean to me, so I've decided to tackle this story with a refreshed brain. I have a new chapter stored away somewhere in my google docs and I dusted it off a bit, thank you so much for the support I couldn't do this without you guys :').


	8. Chapter 7

A/N: GUYYYYSS! I'm so thrilled to be here, to post yet ANOTHER chapter of this story! I've gotten over my little mental vacation, and I'm just so thankful that I had enough support to keep this story going(you guys really are my fuel). This is a pretty big chapter, so please sit back and enjoy it, because it sure did take a lot to get out here. I'm hoping to post the next chapter this month, but if I don't, be patient, it's coming...slowly but surely...

/*/*/*

"There is...something I don't understand about this story, Elliot."

Suffocated light came up through the cracks in between the boards on the floor, leaving most of the room in a pitiful dark gloom. Elliot swallowed, peering past the desk, the only piece of furniture in the room, at the dark silhouette behind. His eyes struggled to adjust to the musty darkness. _Does he always keep his office this dark?_

Few had seen Rathmore in person, as he always kept to his 'office', the lights dimmed or turned off completely and the interior bare. If anyone were to question about his health or well-being, they most certainly would have been laughed at. It was common knowledge that most of the men in charge around here were either psychotic or deranged.

"What is it, sir?"

There was the sound of a chair scraping over the concrete floor.

"See...over time, this...building...has been set up with defenses. Unlike other defense systems, we haven't designed it to keep people out...but in."

The raspy, broken voice held a note of pride to it. Elliot felt as if he were inhaling dust, his lungs begging for oxygen.

"We're not quite sure how they escaped, sir...we have evidence that they got into the lab through the ventilation system, and they somehow found out about the gas tanks, and of course, we never keep a lock on the door to the garage in case someone like you needed an escape route-"

"Stop your useless gibbering and wake up!" Rathmore croaked, slamming something solid over his desk. Elliot flinched. The sound bounced around him, gradually dying away.

"I designed this building twenty years ago, boy. I had dreamed this palace up in my head before you knew what a gun was. I know every passageway, every corner, every step and cobweb in this damned place. I _**am**_ this damned place. Nobody enters or leaves here without me knowing about it. Do you think I wouldn't be prepared for intruders? Do you think I like to sit down and cry when things go wrong? Bullshit."

Elliot tensed his shoulders slightly.

"What are you implying?"

Rathmore extended a ghostly fist out towards him, catching a hint of light on his bony knuckles. He unfolded his fingers, every ligament and vein visible through his papery skin, and released a small device that hit the floor with a clatter.

"I've put a tracking device on every plane we have possession of. Take this and find them. Bring some men with you."

Elliot knelt down to retrieve the device, glancing under the desk as he did so. The space where two legs belonged, he saw only one, a slender pole resting where the other should have been. He stood, bending forward respectfully before heading out into the hallway.

/*/*/*

It was a little too late to be considered a morning, yet Anya felt that there was no other way to describe what she saw when she looked out the window. Rain pattered down softly from the sky, and what little light was released from the blanket of clouds above was gray and weak. _Mornings, rain. Signs of a new beginning._

Tintin was still fast asleep, catching up on the rest he missed over the past two days. There were two plates on the chair by the door, each with a stack of round flat cakes doused in sugary syrup. Anya smiled. _Pancakes._

She ate quickly, noting that though the food had long since lost its warmth, it tasted better than anything she could remember. _I suppose that's what hunger does to you…I wonder what day it is today?_

She slipped on her shoes, suddenly overcome by curiosity. The weather here, wherever they were, had been warm and humid. Skirting across the lawn, she made it to the front porch and tried the door handle. The door opened.

"Hello? Matt?"

She entered the house, kicking her damp shoes off by the door. The clock in the living room read 12:40.

"Hello? I just came in to check what day it is, I hope you won't mind!"

She glanced out the window, noticing the empty driveway. Perhaps Matt wasn't home.

She found a calendar in the kitchen. _Today is Sunday, September 3rd, 1950._

Matt must have gone to a church, she decided. She was about to return to the shack, when a sharp ring caught her attention. She followed the sound to the kitchen. A black telephone was impatiently waiting for her on the counter.

Anya knew she shouldn't answer it; she knew how completely and utterly stupid that would be, even as her hand reached over and picked up the receiver. A man's voice came out of the headset.

"Hey Dawson, this is Davey Wayne. I'm coming over on Wednesday to pick up the load, alright?"

Anya's mind blanked.

"Ahh..."

"Hello? Matt?"

"C-can I take a message, sir?"

"Who is this? Are you a maid or something?"

"Y-yes, of course, I'm Matt Dawson's maid. I'll give him...ah...Mr. Dawson...your message, sir."

"I didn't know Matt got himself a maid...well, thank you kindly, ma'am."

"But of course."

The receiver clicked, and Anya released a tense breath.

"Didn't your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"

Anya's heart jumped, and she whipped around to see Tintin in the doorway.

"Don't you scare me like that! I outta…"

"Shh...keep your voice down." He stepped into the kitchen, a finger over his lips for silence. He looked as if he were holding back a good old laugh. She swore she could punch him.

"You think you're a real comic, don't you?" she hissed as he approached her, his hands resting in his pockets.

"You're the one who broke in here."

"Well, we're both in here now, aren't we? And for the record, I think he would believe me over you any day."

"Really?"

Anya narrowed her brow.

"You _did_ crash a plane on his property."

She turned away, directing her attention to a slip of paper beside the telephone receiver. She scanned down the list of names and numbers. She sensed Tintin tense next to her.

"Listen, Anya. I didn't come in here to yell at you..."

"I suppose it's just second nature, then?"

"N-no...what was I supposed to do, wait for you to come back? What were you even doing in he-"

Anya clamped a hand over his mouth suddenly, looking past him.

"Someone's here. We need to go."

" _Wait_ ," Tintin replied quickly, brushing her hand from his face. "Go talk to him, quickly! Try stall him as long as you can. I need to make a call."

"A fine time to do it," She hissed, throwing him a furious glare as she shot out the back door. Tintin shook himself mentally, snatching up the headset and the paper.

"Hello, this is a long-distance call from…."

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid...you'd think I'd know exactly where I was by now._

"Sorry, can you give me a second?"

He looked around the kitchen, snatching an opened envelope from under a half-eaten apple.

"Hello, my name is Matt Dawson, this is a long-distance call from Brockton, Massachusetts.I'd like to place a call to Archibald Haddock in Brussels, Belgium? He's landline 412."

"Archibald Haddock, Brussels, Belgium, 412?" The landline lady responded.

"Yes."

"Alright...do you want me to call you back?"

"No, I'll hold. Please hurry, it's urgent."

He waited impatiently as the call transferred, keeping an eye out the window. Anya was still talking to Matt, but his body language showed he was eager to get inside. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if he got caught using the telephone, but Tintin didn't want to awaken suspicion. Anya was leading Matt to the shack now, most likely to fix a nonexistent problem. _Good girl._

"They're ringing the number, Mr. Dawson."

"Okay, thanks."

He listened as the phone rang twice on the other end, before being received by a gruff voice.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Haddock? A long-distance call from Matt Dawson in Massachusetts for you."

"I'm him."

"Alright, go ahead."

"Hey, Captain, it's Tintin."

"Tintin? Where are you calling from?! We've been worried sick-"

"Glad to speak to you too, Captain, but I'm short on time here. I'm just calling to tell you I'm alright, and I'm in Brockton, Massachusetts."

"Blistering...well, I suppose you don't have time to explain. I suppose you want me to catch the next plane to America."

"You know I wouldn't ask if it weren't important, but I think I'm onto something big here. I'll give you a ring in the next few days, if you haven't already left. We can meet in New York City. Make sure you leave Nestor with details in case I don't reach you in time."

He hung up and slipped outdoors.

/*/*/*

"Well, my symptoms really are quite minor...headaches, swollen feet, cold sweats…"

Anya felt she could practically drop with relief as Tintin slipped in the shack. She flashed him a look that said, _you owe me big time._ He shrugged guiltily. _What was I supposed to do?_ As Matt turned around, Tintin straightened, putting on a polite smile.

"Uh, Mr. Tintin, Miss Jane told me you just went out for a walk, and that you were experiencing some pretty intense head trauma…"

Matt looked as elderly as ever, his soft brown eyes revealing his discomfort. The corner of Tintin's lip cinched slightly as he stole a glance at Anya.

"Of course, sir...I'm so pleased _Jane_ could fill you in with my absence. The truth is, we haven't been feeling so well, and we think it would be best if we set out on our way tomorrow morning, so not to inconvenience you anymore."

"You've been wonderfully hospitable towards us, Mister. We cannot thank you enough, and the last thing we would want is to be a burden," Anya added sweetly.

If there was a flicker of suspicion in Matt's eyes, Anya didn't catch it. He smiled, nodding.

"Of course."

Tintin looked after him until he had gone, his face blank with thought. As soon as Matt was out of sight, he quickly took Anya by the arm and pulled her behind the shack. She released a tiny gasp of alarm, her nerves jumping.

"T-Tintin I-"

Tintin's face was alight with pure joy as he spoke to her in a rushed whisper.

"I spoke to Haddock."

Anya swallowed, narrowing her brow.

"Haddock? I'm sorry, I don't-"

"Archibald Haddock? He's my best friend. He's practically family to me, and we've known each other for as long as I remember! I can't believe I got through to him, and…"

Tintin trailed off, his expression falling as he realized Anya wouldn't have any clue as to who he was talking about. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Ah, right. I've probably lost you. Well, you'll get a chance to meet him, for sure. I talked to him, and he said he was going to catch the next plane to America there is. I'm sure he'll like you-I mean-you'll like him."

Anya nodded. She could clearly see this Haddock character must mean a lot to Tintin, especially if he was willing to come all the way to America to see him.

"Well, we've sold out our welcome here, but where are we going next?" She sat down on her bed with a bounce.

"New York City. This right here," he held out a slip of worn paper, "is our destination."

Anya studied the slip. _**N591UA.**_

"So...are these numbers supposed to mean something?"

"Not yet, but that 'N' does. Remember when I told you the aircraft was American?"

"Ah, I see what you're thinking. We're going plane hunting."

Her voice was unenthusiastic.

"Anya, this could be really important. We need to get to the core of this crime ring, and the best way to do that, is through it's connections. Are you following me?"

Anya found his gaze too intense to hold. She smiled, her shoulders dropping.

"Right behind you. Where will we go first?"


	9. Chapter 8

Anya sighed deeply, giving in to the weariness that weighed down her eyelids. Even though she had spent most of the day resting, she felt she could sleep forever. She heard Tintin's bed creak, the sound feeling as close to her as if it were from her own bed. She decided he must be awake, as the boy was a very still sleeper, unlike herself; Anya was restless, even while sleep.

 _I wonder what he's thinking about._

Sleeping in the presence of another person was as unusual to her as sleeping upside down. She rolled onto her back, folding her hands over the covers. The night air had a pleasant chill to it.

 _I wonder what he thinks about me._

She ran through just about every encounter with him she could recall, hoping it would help ease her to sleep, yet it seemed to do the opposite. She recalled how much of a pest she was when they first met, how she acted wild and impulsive during their escape, how she had been caught in the kitchen earlier today faking a call. He must have wanted her to be milder, as a girl; perhaps not as straightforward.

 _Would he like me better if I were more of a lady?_

She hadn't had many interactions with girls her own age. How could she know the right things to say, or what to do?

"Anya? Are you awake?" A soft voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"I'm awake."

"Listen, about what I said earlier...I'm really sorry. I must have sounded like an idiot."

"Tintin-"

"All I meant was, I hope we can be friends. Even if it's just for a little while."

The word sounded foreign in her ears, like something out of a story book. She felt a small fluttering sensation in her stomach, coming and disappearing in a second.

"I...I think I'd like that. And I-"

" _Stop talking."_

Anya rolled over, surprised. Tintin was sitting straight up in bed, his face concentrated, sending sharp tingles of alarm down her scalp.

"What is it?"

He slipped out of bed, moving to the door in one fluent movement. Anya scrambled after him, her dark hair flying wildly around her face. Tintin motioned for her to stay back as he opened the door. Anya heard it now: the rhythm of voices just outside. They didn't seem too happy, either. Anya lingered behind Tintin, the pale light of the full moon setting him aglow. The porch light on the house was open, and in the moonlight Anya could see Matt in the doorway, talking to a group of men standing stiffly on his driveway. Matt made no effort to stop them as the men paraded into his house. He looked defeated, even from so far away, and Anya felt a stab of pity for the man. Tintin almost tripped over her as he skirted back to his bed, gathering their few belongings.

"Grab your stuff, Anya. We have to leave, now."

Anya obeyed, feeling a familiar pulse of excitement; once again, they were on the move.

In mere seconds they left the little shack, as if they had never been there. Anya dashed after Tintin, fixing her gaze on the back of his ginger head. His shoulders moved with his feet, strong and smooth. As trees blocked out the moon around them, she realized they were going through the woods. Too exhilarated to feel tired, they ran, all concept of time and space dissolving in the darkness. After a while, Anya heard more than the sound of their feet striking the leafy ground; somewhere, an owl hooted in the night. Something wolfish cried out, sending goosebumps over her skin. The next thing she knew she was plummeting towards the ground.

"Are you alright?" Tintin quickly helped her to her feet, brushing debris from her shirt.

"Clumsy…" She mumbled, though the ground felt like it was on a slant.

"We're almost out of this forest, and we can stop. See over there? There are lights."

She nodded, too breathless to speak. Flickering lights could be seen off in the distance, between the trees.

"Here, lean on me. We have to keep moving."

He offered an arm to her, and she slowly surrendered her weight to him, not minding his tight grip around her waist or the way his damp sweater pressed against her cheek.

"Everything's going to be fine…."

/*/*/*

Haddock turned his passport over in his hand. At his feet, Snowy whined, pressing against his leg as if Haddock was an island and the airport a sea of monsters. Haddock smiled, bending over to ruffle Snowy's fur.

"It'll be alright, laddie. There's a good boy…"

He couldn't remember Snowy being this affectionate towards him before, but then again, he supposed he was the closest thing the little dog had to Tintin.

"Passport, sir."

Haddock handed his passport to the worker under the glass screen. The uniformed man glanced over the counter with a distasteful scowl.

"Your dog has to be on a leash, sir. Better yet, in a cage."

Haddock flustered. "Listen here, mister. This dog is probably the best behaved mutt in all of Belgium. I won't have you treating him like that."

"Even so, all _mutts_ tend to get under someone's skin on an airplane. Occasionally, even before they make it past security…"

His snide comment went under Haddock's radar.

"Alright, I'll tie him up. Do you have a rope?"

"See if you can find a belt or something over in that box of discarded items. Here's your passport."

Haddock brought his hand to his cap in thanks, and headed over to said box. He found a pink scarf that would do the trick, and double-knotted it around Snowy's neck. Snowy growled, turning his head in offense.

"Come on, now, boy...just for a few hours...pink isn't really your color, is it?"

Haddock noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a bearded man with sunglasses was watching him. The man glanced at some sort of paper, and back at him again, almost as if…

Haddock looked directly at him. The man turned his head, tucking the paper away as he walked back towards the entrance. Haddock stood, watching as the man disappeared into the crowd.

"Huh…"

" _ **Direct flight from Brussels to New York is now boarding."**_

"Well, let's go Snowy," Haddock said, and headed to catch his flight, trying to leave all thoughts of the mysterious man behind him.

/*/*/*

Tintin let out a silent breath of relief as his feet moved from woodland to the gravel road. He took a moment to regain his breath, his legs trembling. Anya pulled away from him, and he let her, watching as she raised her hands over her head, pacing slowly.

"Haven't...run like that...in so long…" she gasped. He exhaled in agreement. He struggled to think of a plan, yet the way he and Anya were thrown out into the night so soon after the frightful plane ride had rattled his mind too much. He brought a fist to his mouth, pressing it against his lips.

"Well?" Anya had stopped pacing and stood with her arms crossed over her chest. "What now?"

Tintin shook his head; "I wish I knew."

"Come on, Reporter. You always think of something. We are still headed to New York, aren't we?"

Tintin stared back into the woods; he felt too unsure of himself to meet Anya's gaze.

"Yes. We still are...I think…"

"We will need to catch the train to New York City. From there, we can get anywhere."

"How do you know…"

"I was born in New York," Anya said. "I know it's not much to go off of, but if we can find a way to get to the train station, we should be able to get where we need to go."

Tintin nodded, his head finally starting to get a grip on things.

"Alright...alright. We need...we need a car...Lord knows where we will find one at this time of day..."

"Hey!"

Some distance down the road, light flashed from an oncoming car. Anya ran towards it, Tintin taking after her with a yell.

"Anya, wait!"

She ran directly to the car, until the lights from the headlights blotted her out, leaving a slim, dark car's wheels screeched as it came to a brisk halt. Anya was close enough to press her sweaty palms against the hood of the car as she made her way to the drivers' window.

"Please sir, we need a ride! It's urgent!"

Tintin froze in front of the vehicle, the glare of the lights washing out his face. The man in the driver's seat poked his head out the window, squinting; he looked to be in his thirties, with dark hair and a square face and glasses.

"Hey there, son. You kids need help? What's happened?"

"We...uh…"

Anya cut in quickly, "See, sir, my mother just called and told us she's going into labor, and she wants us to be there as soon as possible."

Tintin felt his stomach twist at the easy lie. He met Anya's wild gaze for a brief moment, his blue eyes glowing from the glare of the headlights. She looked away, tightening her grip on the window.

"Your mother? I see. Where to?"

"The train station, please."

"Well, that's only a twenty minute drive from here. Hop in."

Tintin went to the other side of the car, slamming the door a little more forcefully than he intended. Anya was already inside, and though she tried to meet his gaze, he stared straight into the back of the passenger seat.

"Thank you so much for helping us out, sir."

Anya's words were truly grateful, but Tintin knew they were meaningless.

"So, where are you from?" The man drove quickly and efficiently, seeming excited for the two strangers in the backseat. Anya engaged in small-talk in her mixed accent, though Tintin noticed she leaned American. When they arrived at the train station, Anya thanked the man again, and he drove away. Dark clouds had gathered over the moon in the short time they were driving, threatening to strike at any moment. Anya turned to Tintin.

"We should buy tickets for the next train to New York City...I think I have enough money for both of us."

Tintin clenched his jaw, looking down at his feet. Anya paused for a moment, giving him a chance to respond, knowing he wouldn't, failing to meet his eyes. She pushed her hurt feelings aside, as she always did, and went to the ticket booth. The station was practically deserted, save for the two gentlemen waiting on the bench and the old lady with a red umbrella off to the side. Anya tapped the iron bars on the ticket booth, in an attempt to rouse the ticket seller behind. He sat up, haphazardly rubbing the sleep from his eyes and grabbing his glasses.

"Wh...what can I help you with, miss?"

"I need a ticket to New York City. Two, actually."

"Mmh...always the city. Nobody evers wants to visit Connecticut, or maybe the Sound..."

"Please sir, I am kind of in a hurry."

"Alright, alright...there's a train to New York City in an hour. Two tickets will cost...let's see…$8 dollars and 22 cents."

Anya pulled a few rumpled bills from her right pocket, and coins from her left. She counted them quickly out loud as she set them on the counter.

"Three...four-fifty...five…"

Her face fell as she realized her pockets were empty. The ticket seller's mustache quirked upwards disdainfully.

"Seems like you're a little short, miss."

"N-no...well…"

A hand came from behind her and slapped down onto the counter, coins clinking underneath its palm.

"Put your money away."

Anya stiffened, recognizing Tintin's blue sweater, rolled up past his elbows, his lean arms and neat hands. She tore her gaze away, and quickly stuffed her money back into the pockets of her oversized men's jeans.

"Here you are, sir. Two tickets to New York City."

"Thank you."

Anya moved out of the way as the gentleman handed Tintin the tickets. She opened her mouth to speak, her stomach feeling twisted, but Tintin was too fast. He took her by the arm and pulled her back outside. The dark night air was humid, and droplets of rain began to plop down upon the platform. He turned to face her once they were alone, his face uncharacteristically concentrated.

"Alright, I'm going to say this once, and I need you to listen to me, okay?"

"Tintin-"

"I've had enough of you shutting me out! I've had enough of...of you trying to fix everything, lying….If you really don't care, about me, or about what I'm trying to do, just _tell_ me now."

Heat rushed to Anya's cheeks; she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze. Tintin exhaled, pressing his fingers to his temples in defeat.

"Anya...I just need you to trust me. You don't have to be alone anymore."

He fixed his gaze upon her, waiting. The rain was falling steadily now, filling in the silence as it pattered down around them, catching in their hair and rolling down their faces. When Anya finally raised her face to meet his gaze, there were tears streaming from her eyes, joining the raindrops as they danced over her skin. Tintin felt his hurt and anger in his expression ebb away, to be replaced by surprise. He heard the rawness of pain in her voice as she took a shaky breath.

"I...I'm so sorry, Tintin..."

She swayed ever so slightly on her feet, and dropped to her knees. Tintin moved towards her, the space between them closing faster than a heartbeat. They were suddenly so close, his arms wrapped around her supportively as she cried into his shirt.

"It's okay…" he murmured into her dark hair, "Everything is going to be okay…"

/*/*/*

 **A/N:** Well, things are moving pretty fast, but don't get too excited; I think we all know Anya and Tintin still have some things to work out in the upcoming chapter. Once again, thanks for the amazing reviews, this chapter was pure fan-power(18 days!)!


	10. Chapter 9

A/N: (Well this formatting is strange) Hey all! Here is your monthly(ish) update! Please leave me a comment so I can feel good about the work I put in here :)

Anya pressed her cheek to the window, the steady fall of rain lulling her to sleep. The window was nowhere near comfortable, as was the wooden seat, and she was surprised when she realized that it actually bothered her. she realized with a stab of self-pity that she wouldn't have minded at all a few months ago.

Tintin came into their section and sat down across from her. Without opening her eyes, she ever so slightly pulled her knees closer to her. Tintin didn't seem to notice. After a few minutes, he broke the silence.

"You can lie down if you want. I don't think there will be many passengers for a while."

She kept her eyes closed, hoping he would think she was asleep. A moment passed.

"You know…"

He sighed, dropping his voice to a barely audible murmur.

"I think we are going to be alright. I really do, Anya."

Anya heard him shifting on the seat, and waited until he was silent before opening her eyes. He was stretched out on the seat, his back facing her. She listened to his breathing until it was long and steady, before she unglued her face from the window, and silently shifted backward to lie down on her back. The train chugged on rhythmically, quieting her thoughts as she fell asleep.

 _Do you sleep?_ She wondered. _Do you ever feel heavy? Do you ever get tired of the tracks set before you?_

The train offered no answers, tirelessly carrying onward into the night.

/*/*/*

Tintin was jolted awake by the cry of the train's conductor.

"Next stop! New York City!"

He stumbled to his feet, his heart racing, and rushed out into the hall. He ran smack into something-taking a step back, he realized someone-tall and firm.

"Watch it, kid!"

"Sorry!" He blurted as he moved around the man, rubbing sleep from his eyes haphazardly. A few more seats down, and he had finally found the source of the voice that woke him; a slim man with glasses and an identifying cap. The man turned to him, surprised.

"Is everything all right, sir?"

Tintin pointed out the window.

"Where are we stopped?"

"We are in Greenwich village right now...we will reach the City in about an hour."

Tintin exhaled heavily, scanning his surroundings swiftly.

"Right...thank you."

He rubbed his hands against his thighs as he walked back; the sun was not high enough in the sky to warm the air yet.

As he approached his seat, he could just begin to hear a man's voice, and he hastened, thinking of Anya. _I shouldn't have left her alone…._

"I already told you, I don't have any money."

Their seats were only a row away when he recognized Anya's voice, and stopped short.

"You don't have to pay anything to look, do you? Come on, honey...such a pretty girl, one would think I'd be paying _you_ to try one on…"

Tintin stepped into his booth. Anya was sitting by the window, and a man with a gray suit was sitting close next to her. As the stranger reached a gloved hand out to touch Anya's shoulder, she shrank away ever so slightly, her dark eyes wide with fear. Tintin felt a dizzying rush in his head, and he stiffened up like a board.

 **"Can I help you?"**

The man practically leaped to his feet, and turned, coming face-to-face with the boy he bumped into earlier. The panic in his face was wiped clear in a heartbeat, replaced with insincere charm.

"I'm sorry to surprise you. I sell women's jewelry, and I simply thought…"

"Do you really? I suppose you have it in your pockets? Or have you left it unattended in a seat somewhere?"

The man removed his hat and looked down apologetically, moving past Tintin with a muffled apology.

Tintin turned to Anya when he had gone. She rose to her feet, squeezing her hands together nervously.

"Are-"

"That-"

They both tried to talk at once, cutting each other off. Anya almost smiled, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Did he touch you?"

"Well, no-"

The train jolted forward with a screech. Tintin steadied himself on the seat corner, but Anya had nothing in reach. She jolted forwards, only to be caught by Tintin's free arm. She saw the flush in her face reflected on his cheeks when she looked at him, and she hesitantly stepped back and sat down. Tintin took a seat across from her, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I'm sorry about that. I won't leave you again."

Anya shrugged. "Sure. But I know you didn't mean to; you must be used to travelling alone."

Tintin almost felt offended, and he couldn't understand why.

"That's not-I mean, I used to work alone, just Snowy and I...I liked it that way then."

"And now?"

"Well, of course I'd rather work alongside someone. It can get very lonely to be so far away from my friends, after a while."

"Sure, it can."

"And you? Do you like to work alone?"

Anya's eyes betrayed the smile on her stifled lips. "I guess it depends who I'm with."

Tintin held her gaze like they were statues, fighting a rising feeling of vulnerability. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short by the cry of the conductor.

 _"Tickets! Please prepare your tickets!"_

He leaned forward to pull his and Anya's tickets out of his back pocket. Anya moved to the window again, the broken sunlight dancing across her face. Their brief intersection was over; yet Tintin had a feeling that they would inevitably have another.

/*/*/*

As soon as her foot touched the New York pavement, a flood of memories came rushing back to her; running through the streets of the City as a child, her hand tightly clutching her mother's...Anya struggled to paint the face of the woman that was so quickly torn out of her life, but all she could put together were small fragments; the smell of peppermint, brown eyes...the glow of sunlight in her dark brown hair….

Anya felt a hand on her back.

"Are you alright?"

She opened her eyes, and realized she was still walking, carefully guided by the hand resting on her back. She took a deep breath, shaking away the nostalgia.

"Yeah...it's funny how the City never changes."

"Do you want to sit?"

"N-no. We need to keep moving." She pointed at a small store down the street.

" _La Touriste._ We should be able to get a map there."

Tintin nodded, digging in his pockets for coins.

"Thing is...I'm about out of money…"

"Don't worry about that just yet. And I've been meaning to ask...how did you get American money to pay for our tickets?"

Tintin chuckled to himself. "I guess our friends back in Belgium didn't search me well enough. I had some dollar coins sewed into the pockets of my plus fours."

He turned his pockets inside out to demonstrate. Anya studied the ripped line of threading curiously.

"But...why American currency?"

"I visit the States more than you would think; it's always good to be prepared. Besides, I can get money easily anywhere in Belgium."

"Aren't you popular."

"Er...yes."

Tintin moved ahead to the door, and held it open. Anya stopped, something like surprise passing over her face. Tintin studied her face, confused.

"Is something the matter?"

She seemed to recover, straightening.

"I-I just-thank you."

Tintin followed her inside, putting the moment behind him.

"Well...here we are. I'll go buy a map. Try not to wander."

Anya nodded, and he headed to the cash register. Her attention was immediately caught up by a sea of fabrics: snow whites, deep reds, sky-blues, and soft pinks. She reached a hand out to touch a white dress, her fingers gliding over the silky fabric.

Her mind was carried back in time, to a small, humid room in the attic of a small house on Cobblestone Street. Her hands were intertwined in a beautiful white dress, decorated with small embroidered flowers. Two gentle hands behind her ran through her dark hair, and the smell of peppermint flooded her senses.

" _Anya, dear, be careful with mommy's dress. It's my favorite."_

" _It's so beautiful, ma."_

 _Her mother chuckled, as she twisted her daughter's hair into a braid._

" _I'll tell you what. When you are older, you can look beautiful in it."_

" _Why don't you wear it, mommy?"_

 _The hands braiding her hair stopped for a second._

" _Oh, Anya...maybe when...maybe when I feel a little better."_

 _She tied off the braid with a red ribbon and lovingly gave her daughter a push._

" _Now, go play, while mommy rests…."_

" _Yes, ma…"_

"Oh, Christine, _look!_ That poor little girl over there!"

"What a pity! I can hardly bear it!"

Anya jumped, taking her hand away from the dress. Two plump women were approaching her, their arms heavy with shopping bags. They were upon her before she could blink, circling her like vultures.

"Oh, my, aren't you _skinny?"_

"Skinny as a bird, _indeed!_ And such sad eyes. Shame on God, she's wearing _men's clothes!"_

The women broke out into shrill laughter, while Anya wished she could pull her men's pants up over her head and disappear.

"We must buy her some _proper_ clothing, Irma."

The woman who spoke, dressed elegantly in a long pink dress, rolled her _r_ 's in such a throaty manner, Anya decided she must be some kind of singer.

"Bianca Castafiore?!"

Tintin's voice was like music to her ears. The woman turned to him, with a delighted squeal.

" _Monsieur Tintin!_ How happy I am to see you!"

Tintin laughed, bowing politely. Anya studied his face from afar, noticing how his eyes squinted when he smiled.

"Tintin, you look like you've been through a war! You must tell me what adventure you are on _this_ time!"

"I should love to, but I really am not in any state to-"

Bianca waved her hand, cutting him off.

"No, no, _monsieur,_ don't tell me. You must come have lunch with me! And of course, dinner, provided so generously by…"

Tintin smiled knowingly.

"Ah, so you have a performance tonight?"

" _Mais oui,_ my first performance in this beautiful city."

"And I see you've met my friend."

Tintin directed his smile towards Anya, extending a hand to her. She flushed, taking his hand and presenting herself with a small curtsy. If the pants made it look ridiculous, both Bianca and Tintin were gracious enough not to let on.

"I-I'm Anya Shan."

"Anya?" Bianca tapped her chin with a long white fingernail. "Is that short for something? Because if it is, it is, your full name must be simply _elegant."_

"Madame, I'm sure…"

"No-I mean, yes," Anya interrupted Tintin quickly. "My given name is Anastasia."

Bianca clasped her hands together in delight; Anya offered half a smile, feeling bashful.

"What a darling girl, Tintin. Now, _Anastasia,_ You simply must come to my living quarters, _immediatement!_ Irma, go summon a taxi."

/*/*/*

The dress slipped over her head and settled above her ankles. She smoothed out the wrinkles and gathered her hair, bringing it over her left shoulder. With a sigh, she turned to face the mirror.  
The girl that stared back at her seemed a stranger, at first. Her figure, once full and curvy, had given way to a sickly thinness. _What's happened to me?_ She felt her cheeks, her stomach turning as her fingers came up against hard, protruding cheekbones.  
Unable to look at herself any longer, she grabbed her things and hurried out of the bathroom.  
Tintin was waiting outside. Anya looked away as soon as she caught his grey-blue eyes, feeling vulnerable under his gaze.

"How do you like the dress?"

She smoothed her hands over her thighs, giving the fabric an experimental tug. She was about to answer him when Castafiore entered the room.

"Anastasia! You look positively _darling!_ Give us a spin, now?"

Anya flushed, feeling Tintin's gaze on her back, and made a turn. The dress was snow white, with an crimson bow fastened around the waist, and an off-shoulder top.

"I had this dress fashioned for a performance in Berlin, but the seamstress was a real dunderhead; She thought my measurements were in centimeters, when I specifically _told_ her they were inches!"

"The dress is beautiful, Madame Castafiore; thank you. I'm sure it would look even more so on you."

Castafiore laughed gaily, bathing in Anya's compliment.

"You're too kind. And I believe you and Mr. Tintin must be starving! I'll have a servant show you to your rooms, and I'll arrange some food to be made for you at 17 hours. I must escape to the theatre now, so I will see you tonight. _Au revoir!_ "

The two wished her good luck and followed a gentleman in a black tux up a white marble staircase.

"She really has a thing for french, doesn't she?" Anya whispered.

Tintin grinned.

"Perhaps she is practicing for tonight. Oh, and about tonight; you may find Madame's performance to be of quite high taste."

"Tintin, what does that-"

He put a finger over his lip, his eyes twinkling with good humor.

"I'll see you just now. And, I meant to say this earlier, but...I do think that dress is lovely on you."

Anya smiled as Tintin disappeared into his room. She ran a hand over the white fabric, and suddenly, a wave of emotion enveloped her. _I wish Mother could see me like this._

She entered her room, closing the door behind her. The silence made her feel so lonely, she almost wished she were dead.

/*/*/*

The food was glorious. Steaming potatoes, greens, and a cooked chicken sat on a white tablecloth, next to an apple pie. Tintin looked around and saw there also were apples and rice on the table; he realized it was the beginning of Autumn in North America, or Fall, as they call it. He looked over at Anya. She was staring at the food, her lips slightly parted, her eyes blank. He gingerly touched her shoulder, and she flinched.

"Anya?"

"I'm fine, I just-"

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear self-consciously.

"I can't believe how long it's been...since I've eaten like this."

Tintin smiled sympathetically.

"You don't have to remember. Right now, you're alive, and that's all that matters. Right?"

"Right."

They took their seats. Tintin took a potato, and passed the plate across the table to Anya, who did the same. They continued this cycle, until the butler came in with a carving knife and cut the chicken. The sound of the knife slicing the meat was the only sound in the room.

Anya flashed Tintin a mischievous grin.

"This is a little silly, isn't it?"

He caught her gaze, pausing to swallow before responding.

"Well, it is probably more food than we can manage."

"Yes, but just this morning we were practically street bound. And now we are having a feast."

Tintin returned her smile.

"I do like this turn of events."

"As do I."

"What is your favorite holiday food?"

Anya chewed an over sized mouthful of chicken before responding.

"My mother used to make pumpkin soup. Pumpkin soup is _amazing._ "

"It sounds very American."

"I suppose you live off of baguettes and crepes?"

"Oh, only when I have to..."

Perhaps it was better that neither party were aware of the butler eavesdropping behind the kitchen doors, so to preserve the warmth and comfort of that moment. It would surely kill one's appetite to know that men with cold intentions lurked behind every shadow in Castafiore's house.


	11. Chapter 10

And the scene was set: red carpets, glossy white marble floors, mile-high windows dressed elegantly in red drapery. Anya looked up until her neck couldn't move any further, at a ceiling covered in pastel paintings of naked babies with harps. She heard a chuckle, and brought herself down to earth, realizing her mouth was hanging open. Tintin was grinning, amused.

"Do you like it?"

"It's...It's _beautiful…_ "

"Yes, it is."

Anya smiled back at him, keeping her mouth in a puckered form. He held her gaze quizzically for a moment, then looked away. Anya frowned, narrowing her brow. _What's up with him?_

"Mister _Tintin!_ And Miss Anastasia! You both look devine!"

Like a shadow, Castafiore leaped upon her two victims. They smiled, feeling bashful under the heaps of praise she offered. She directed them to the bar with a generous wave.

"Drinks are on me tonight. Go ahead; you must behave like Americans tonight."

"Thank you kindly, Madame. We are very grateful," Tintin replied smoothly, bowing slightly. Anya followed his lead, flashing Castafiore a girlish smile, and they continued to the bar. Tintin, trying to be a gentleman, awkwardly pulled out the bar stool for Anya. She laughed.

"I don't think I would win if I had to wrestle my dress over that! I'll stand; you must sit."

Tintin shook his head, smiling. He wouldn't feel right doing that, and she knew. Anya leaned against the counter next to him.

"I seem to be the only unattached lady here," she commented. It was true; most of Castafiore's female friends and fans were attached at the arm with a gentleman. Tintin frowned as a man grabbed the stool next to them.

"You're with me tonight. How could you say that?" He feigned offence. Anya laughed again.

"Monsieur, you must know I'm joking. Now, I must know; what do you drink?"

Tintin felt oddly self-conscious.

"I...well, I don't drink. Or smoke. I try to stay focused on my work."

"You're aren't working, are you, Monsieur Tintin?"

Anya's eyes looked alive tonight. Perhaps it was the people, or the jazz music that tiptoed around the edges of the theatre.

"Well, I want to drink. And I want to do it well. Order me something."

"A drink for the lady, yes?"

The bartender popped up from under the counter. Tintin stuttered.

"I...uh...she will have…champagne, please sir. And-and I'll have one also."

"Ice?"

"No, thanks."

The bartender slid two glasses toward them in a moment. Anya took hers and sipped it tentatively. Tintin noticed the curve in her neck as she tilted her head back; his gaze dropped to her bare shoulders and the curve that swept down from her armpit and he looked down at his drink, taking a swig. Anya smirked.

"It's my first time in a bar as well."

"You hide it marvelously well. You'd like Haddock; he's a drunk."

They both snickered into fist and napkin. Anya finished her glass and another one appeared. The time seemed to slide by. Finally, Tintin told the bartender they had had enough. He took Anya's arm and they walked out into the center of the room.

"I feel like people are staring. Is there a reward out for you?"

"Perhaps they suspect you are hiding something in your skirt. Is that a barstool behind you?"

They giggled, smothering their mouths with their hands again. They slipped outside. Tintin took his jacket off and draped it over Anya's shoulders, rubbing his temples with his fingers.

"I haven't drank like that in a long time _…_ "

"We should have eaten something first. I couldn't fit dinner into this dress."

"Ridiculous. Women's clothes, I mean. You look wonderful."

They sat down on the stone patio bench. Anya exhaled into the silence.

"What are you thinking?"

"A diamond. My father gave my mother this...this fist-sized _diamond_ , to get her to stay with him. She didn't want it; she didn't love his money or his job. He was too far gone by then, and we all knew it. That diamond was so _beautiful,_ " she murmured.

"I rescued a diamond like that in India. It was concealed in a little wooden voodoo doll. I was meaning to save both of 'em, but the smugglers fell into the sea with the diamond and the doll was left with me."

Anya turned her shoulders to him.

"That's odd...what sea was it? My father said the jewel came from the Red Sea. And the thugs that went down with it, one of them survived."

Tintin perked up.

"That's...that's fantastic...I lost the diamond in the Red Sea. What were the thugs' names?"

"Names are not currency in my father's business."

"I see."

They sank back down, letting it rest. Anya spoke again, after a moment.

"When my mother died...my father changed. When I was a little girl, my mother told me of the way he was before…"

"He...he must have hurt you. I've noticed the scar along the base of your neck."

Anya stood up, and moved to the stone barrier, resting her crossed arms over the surface. Her breath was shaking; she felt so vulnerable, and yet safe. Tintin moved beside her cautiously.

"You can tell me, Anya. But you don't have to."

"I trust you. And I want you to know."

She swallowed.

"You know my father is very powerful. I told my father once that...I wanted out. I told him that I would never stop resisting him, and he knew I meant it. He was used to be being invisible, I guess…

"He...he just _gave me_ to them…"

A touch on her hand. A soft voice.

"Who?"

"His...his men. They could have killed me that night...I was so frightened, Tintin…"

"Did they…?"

"They beat me. They handled me like an animal. I will never underestimate the strength of men. And my neck...it was an accident. One of them decided to joke around, and held a shot glass against my neck. They were quite drunk, you know….the glass pressed harder and harder until it just shattered...I felt it cut into my skin. I'll never forget. I fainted so quickly I didn't remember fainting. My father had them killed."

She realized she was crying. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, breathing in.

"He just...left me alone after that."

As she said it, she couldn't speak anymore past the lump in her throat. She realized she had felt guilty, blaming herself for her father's silence. She had almost wished he would beat her like he used to; at least then he was _alive_ in her mind.

She felt Tintin's fingers touch the nape of her neck, tracing the scar where the skin clumsily healed together.

"You can't come back," he whispered.

"What?"

"You can't come back to Brussels. You know too much by now. They would kill you."

"But we have to go back."

"I mean you have to stay here, Anya."

She fell silent.

"But...my home is in Brussels."

"You have family. You have an uncle, don't you?"

"I...yes, but I haven't spoken to him in years. My father made sure of it. All I know is that he lives in the States."

"What's his name? We can find him. I can go back to Belgium alone and expose your father's mafia, once and forever."

Anya pulled away from his touch, angry.

"You always must work alone. You never take anyone's help!"

"Anya, this is my _job._ I need to do this for...there's a greater purpose here! I can't believe...I've been working towards this this entire time!"

He was baffled by the fury in her eyes.

"You've been _using_ me."

He took her hands, forcing her to face him.

"You've been a great help, Anya, but that's not...I mean…"

"I suppose you're more than happy to dump me here and leave, for what, a _newspaper_! They'll kill me if you say _anything_ I've told you, don't you understand?!"

"Anya…"

"You're just like the rest of them!" She resisted him, her vision blurring with tears. "Everyone uses me and then dumps me behind them. And I thought you were different. I _hate_ being a girl! _I hate i-!"_

He kissed her in one movement. She felt every piece of emotion and anger inside her blanch and fade away, forgotten. She was lifeless as he moved away from her, and then her face jerked forward to his, kissing him with the same passive intensity. His hands on her cheeks felt unreal. Their lips parted slowly, and Anya realized her hands had attached themselves to his collar. She let her fingers relax, trying to smooth the crinkled fabric. Tintin moved his hands to hers, bringing them down.

"I...I don't want to forget you."

Her voice came out as a wordless whimper. _I want you to remember me._

He stepped back, running a hand through his ginger tuft.

"It...it must be close to eight by now. We should go find our seats."

They slipped inside, out of the cold. Some of the crowd was making its way toward the bar for a final drink.

"Mr. Tintin and Ms. Anastasia Shan?"

A small man in a shimmering black suit approached them, holding a white card.

"That's us," Tintin replied.

"Would you please come with me? I have reservations for you."

"Yes, thank you."

He offered his arm to Anya, who received it silently. She felt strange to be paraded into a fancy theater to a reserved seating, and stranger still to be attached to the arm of a gentleman in a suit. It was magical and surreal at the same time, like something out of a movie.

"Here are your seats."

The seats were plush leather, and a shade of red deeper than blood. Anya found herself digging her nails into her palms as the performance began, feeling both excited and anxious. Tintin seemed to notice her jitteriness very quickly.

"You know, Haddock never used to...particularly _like_ Castafiore's performances."

"Really?...I'm sure she's just lovely…"

"That reminds me...I wonder how Haddock is faring? I'll have to call Marlinspike Hall later tonight."

She swallowed, forcing herself to relax. Castafiore practically glowed, her face radiant as the spotlights that were fixed upon her. Then she opened her mouth. The performance seemed to fly by after that, and as Anya and Tintin rose to give a standing ovation, something caught Anya's eye. Or rather, some _one_.

She turned her head slowly, the sound of applause bleeding together in her mind to a dull hum. A face, both familiar and strange, was moving towards her from behind dark sunglasses; the cut of his chin and the shape of his nose didn't strike a chord in her memory, yet the way he moved through a crowd of people like a snake gave him away almost instantly to her seasoned eyes. Time suddenly seemed to stop.

He was only 15 feet away now, and Anya could not move. He moved his left hand out of his pocket, concealing something small inside the palm of his hand. Anya felt her head spin as she watched the hand, merely feet away now, reach toward her. She closed her eyes, as a child would pull a blanket over his or her head, and willed the monster away.

What happened next send a shock of electricity through her veins. The hand pressed against her forearm, and a cold bolt of pain shot up her arm. She flinched away, snapping open her eyes. The man had disappeared into the crowd.

"Anya?"

Someone was calling her name.

" _Anya?"_

She blinked, forcing herself to focus. The noise in the room came back to her, and she realized she was the only one in the room standing. Tintin was staring at her with concern. She quickly sat down, feeling too overwhelmed to be embarrassed.

"Are you sure you're feeling up to this? Castafiore would understand if we left early…"

"I...no, we should stay. I feel perfectly fine."

Her left arm had no feeling in it. She brushed her fingers over it, feeling something hard sitting on her forearm. It was a curious black square. She gingerly pulled it out of her arm as the crowd went into another round of enthusiasm.

"Merci, merci, and thank you New York!"

The black square came free from her arm, and the two deep puncture marks underneath them began to pool with blood. Anya tried to swallow back her nausea, as the square fell from her trembling fingers to the floor. The crowd around her rose to their feet, and conversation bubbled to life. She stood, letting them flow around her and push her to the exit, like a river of hats and coats.

She didn't stop walking until she realized Tintin wasn't behind her.

/*/*/*

Tintin had also found a familiar face in the crowd. Two, actually.

A familiar sea captain's cap and snow white terrier caught his eye first, and, he thought, it _couldn't_ be.

But it was. Tintin dashed to the aisle, clambering over multiple crossed legs and leather purses, attracting snarls of annoyance.

"Haddock!"

His old friend turned to look at him with surprise.

"Tintin?!"

They shook hands eagerly, Haddock slapping Tintin on the back a little too enthusiastically.

"Well, well, my boy! I thought we would never find you in this godforsaken rut!"

"I'm so sorry...I just-how did you-?"

Haddock's beard moved upwards to suggest a grin.

"I was walking past Houston Street and Snowy suddenly bolted with his sniffer to the ground...I followed him right to this theater. They weren't going to let me in, but Madame Castafiore let them…She said you were here."

"You can thank your lucky stars she did!" Tintin scolded, but his eyes were warm with joy.

"When did your plane land? Where have you been staying?"

"The old bird landed yesterday morning. Nestor had given me the address of some family he knew in New York, and I'm staying with the Patels right now."

"Oh, that reminds me; I have someone for you to meet."

He turned around, looking back into the row they were sitting in for a head of wavy brown hair, but the seats were empty. He leaned down to tousle Snowy's head, trying to see past the wall of people.

"He must have gone into the hall. We might catch up with him faster if we take the back door and go around," Haddock said. Tintin looked to where he was motioning.

"Alright, then."

They moved quickly. Tintin felt overwhelmed as he weaved through the crowd, searching the face of every woman with a white dress. There weren't many.

"This must be the biggest audience she's had so far," Haddock grumbled, getting down on his hands and knees to retrieve his cap from the floor. It had been knocked down by a lady's oversized feather hat.

"Hey, what does your friend look like? And what's his name? We should split up to find him faster."

"Well, that's the thing, Haddock...it's not really a ' _him'_ …"

" _Not_ a him? What does that mean?"

Tintin looked back at Haddock, who was crawling after him spiritedly. He offered him a hand.

"It's more of a ' _her'_ , Haddock."

Haddock pushed his cap low on his forehead as he stood up, his dark eyes reflecting surprise.

"A _lady?_ _Why?"_

Tintin's face turned slightly red, in spite of himself.

"She's a _friend._ And you don't have to act like I'm helping her for any other reason than that."

"You know what trouble women are, Tintin. They are difficult creatures to please, and-why are you looking at me like that?"

Tintin's face was screwed up in anger.

"She's just a girl, Haddock. And I expect you to be courteous and behaved around her, do you understand?"

Haddock's expression went from one of frustration to fear.

"D-does that mean I-"

" _Yes,_ Haddock. I need you to stay away from alcohol for a while."

Tintin's attention was stolen from Haddock's unpleasant expression by a flash of white some yards in front of the refreshments table. He hastened toward the white figure, recognizing a red ribbon trailing down the back.

 _Anya._

/*/*/*

The room around her was a blur of laughter and lights. She felt fear building with every step she took. _I just need to get outside….some fresh air will clear my head…._

She felt claustrophobia with the side effects of whatever the hell was in that strange black device; even now, as she clamped her hand over the stream of blood starting down her arm, she felt like the room was closing in around her. A gloved hand pressed against her back. She looked up at the figure beside her; he smelled strongly of aftershave.

"Come with us, miss….a cab is waiting for you outside."

The quiet voice sent chills down her spine.

"I don't need a cab," She mumbled, trying to turn away. The hand pressed harder, biting hard against her back; she realized there was a blade concealed within the gloved palm.

"Don't worry, miss. You are in safe hands…"

" _Hey!"_ A voice.

The man suddenly was rushing her through the doors, into the street. The evening air was chilly, and Anya wished she could pull her dress over her bare shoulders.

"Hey! LET GO OF HER!"

Anya's knees suddenly buckled from under her. Tintin rushed through the doors, his jaw set. A small white dog tore after him, barking ferociously. The man that forced Anya outside swung his elbow back at the boy's stomach. Tintin dodged cleanly, ramming his fist into the thug's chin. A cab swung up alongside the scene now, and there was another man in a suit rushing out of the vehicle. Tintin was wrestled to the ground, and all that was left to see of him was a pair of swinging fists. Anya was rolled into the back of the cab unceremoniously, and she blacked out with her cheek pressed against the worn leather of the seat. The groan of the engine drowned out Tintin's yell.

" _ANYA!"_

/*/*/*

Haddock held his cap against his head as he made his way through the crowd, in the direction Tintin disappeared.

"Here one second, gone the next," he grumbled. He heard a distant shout weakly rising above the conversations in the room, and hastened towards the doors. The cool night air was a slap to the wrist, and his breath turned into a thin cloud on his lips.

"What in tarnation is going on out here?!"

The man had shoved Tintin to the ground and stepped back to ditch his coat, a trickle of blood racing down his cheek. Tintin groaned, pulling himself to his knees. The stranger was upon him again in a second, beating him right back down into the dirt.

"Hey! Get off'm, you brute!"

His aggressive yell was cut short by the sound of a black cab starting up. He swung at the man, enjoying the sound of his surprised cry. The three of them were in a bunch one moment, and suddenly dispersing the next. Another black cab pulled up, and the man jumped into it quickly.

"That's right! Get away, ya toad!"

Tintin was crouching on a hand and a knee.

"Don't let'im get away!"

"Wha-"

He turned to look back at the cab, but it was too late; the vehicle shot down the street with a roar. Tintin sprinted after them for a few yards, but stopped short, clutching his chest. He doubled over, vomiting. Haddock dashed after him.

"Blistering barnacles...Jellyfish!...Bullies!...Rapscallions! Miserable earth worms!"

Tintin stood up, wiping his mouth. He was holding a crimson-stained handkerchief against his face.

"'Addock, they took 'er."

"Thundering Typhoons...they got you right in the beak, didn't they?"

He pulled a big handkerchief out of his back pocket, offering it to Tintin.

"Come back inside, won't you? Your face needs more medical attention than my liver."

"This wa'nt s'pposed to 'appen. This wan't supposed'a 'appen…"

Snowy limped up to Tintin from the direction the car disappeared, his front left paw tucked away. He whined, pressing his nose against Tintin's knee.

"'Good try, 'thnowy."

Haddock lead a battered Tintin and Snowy back inside, mentally preparing himself for the unwanted attention they would receive.

"You two better start looking after yourselves, now...I don't think I can find replacements anywhere in the world."


	12. Author's Note! :)

A/N: Hello friends! I made a major update to chapter 10, so I recommend you reread it. I promise you will enjoy it ;) The next chapter is coming soon. As this two plus year project comes to an end, I just want to thank all my lovely readers and reviewers. You mean the world to me. I've been typing for hours this weekend and enjoyed it in full; if I am to be a writer when I grow up, I will be very happy. Enjoy! Chapter 11 coming very soon!


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